I Steal Small Things from People I Love

I’m not a thief. Not in the way you’re thinking.

I don’t slip wallets from pockets or rob jewelry stores at midnight. I’ve never sold anything I’ve taken. In fact, no one’s ever noticed that anything was missing.

Because what I steal are small things—tiny, almost invisible pieces of people I love.

It started with my grandfather’s lighter.

He had a habit of flicking it open and shut while he told stories. His fingers, gnarled with age, moved with surprising grace. When he passed, there were formal goodbyes and family gatherings, but no one thought twice about the battered silver Zippo on the windowsill.

I did.

So I took it.

Not because I wanted to smoke. Not because I thought it was valuable. But because when I held it, flicked it, I could almost hear his laugh again. That half-chuckle he made when his punchlines landed flat.

I keep it in my desk drawer. Sometimes I light it just to watch the flame dance.

From there, the habit grew.

My mother always wore the same shade of lipstick—Muted Rose. She had dozens of tubes, half-used and worn to slanted nubs. When she left one behind on the bathroom counter during a visit, I didn’t tell her. I wrapped it in tissue and placed it in a box with my grandfather’s lighter.

Later, I added the tiny ceramic rabbit my best friend loved but never really looked at. It sat on her bookshelf among dozens of knick-knacks, forgotten in the clutter. When she moved to another city, I pocketed it, told myself she’d never notice. She didn’t.

The rabbit sits by my windowsill now. It catches the light in a way that reminds me of her—sharp edges softened by warmth.

It’s not about possession. It’s not about ownership.

It’s about memory.

It’s about preserving some version of the people I care about, as they are in moments that matter to me. Not the big occasions—the graduations or weddings—but the in-between fragments: the way someone twirls a pen when they’re nervous, the mug they always pick for coffee, the cassette tape they never played but kept in their car for years.

That’s what I steal.

I stole my ex-boyfriend’s guitar pick. Not the fancy one, the plastic one he’d chew on when he thought too long between songs. I stole a grocery list written in my sister’s rushed scrawl, complete with a doodle of a banana with sunglasses.

None of it means anything to anyone but me.

And that’s the point.

I know how strange this sounds. I’ve tried to explain it before—half-joking, always with a laugh—but people don't get it. They think it's creepy, or sad. Maybe it is.

But it’s also how I hold on.

Because people leave. They move away, they fall out of touch, they change. Sometimes they die. And even when they stay, they’re never quite the same from one year to the next. That’s not a tragedy—it’s just the truth.

But I can’t help wanting to freeze something of them. To steal a single, small echo of who they were when they mattered most to me.

A frayed movie ticket from a first date. A broken watch that still smells faintly of cologne. The cap from a favorite pen. A paper crane folded during a study session.

Each item is a story. Each theft is a quiet rebellion against time.

There are rules, though.

I only take things that feel abandoned or overlooked. I never take anything anyone would truly miss. And I never, ever take from people I don’t love.

There’s no thrill in it. No rush of adrenaline. Just a kind of peace, a silent ritual. My secret museum of connection.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if someone found the box.

Would they understand?

Would they be hurt?

Maybe. Probably.

But I like to think, if I explained it right, they’d see the tenderness in it. That these stolen fragments aren’t trophies—they’re tributes. Not reminders of what I took, but of what I felt.

Love isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come with fireworks or declarations. Sometimes it’s quiet and strange and a little bit sad.

Sometimes it’s slipping a cracked mug into your coat pocket and carrying it home like a secret.

Sometimes it’s keeping a part of someone close, even after they’re gone.