Objects as evidence that something real happened here.

A smile in the midst of heartbreak.

A head thrown back in laughter.

A long night beneath the stars.

A car ride with the windows rolled down, hair whipping in your face, and the unmistakable feeling of being alive and just damn grateful for it.

The ticket stub you couldn't throw away.

The letter you read one more time.

The photograph that followed you from house to house.

These things remind us of a time when people dressed up for the airport, put lipstick on for the movies, and met every sunrise with panache, not performance.

They weren't collecting moments.

They were just living them.

Eyes forward.

A bounce in their step.

Entirely themselves.

Because authenticity is the only real luxury left.