📖 Teks Cerita
There’s this old denim jacket I keep draped over a chair, the kind that carries the smell of summers and bad decisions. Near the pocket is a faded patch I stitched on after a road trip, a goofy sun with a cigarette-turned-cloud—don’t ask—and every time I rub it my fingers remember the highway. Last week a gust blew the window open and the pocket’s little flap slapped against my wrist like a tiny, ridiculous alarm; I swear, for a second, seeing that flap was enough to pull me back into the panic of being twenty, of thinking every small thing was urgent. But then I laughed at myself, smoothed the flap, ran my thumb over the patch, and felt stitched-together again—like the jacket and the memory both got a tiny repair. That’s what small things do; a patch holds a story, a flap jolts you awake, and together they keep you honest about where you’ve been.