He doesn’t even know why he takes the Polaroids in his wallet.

They are debris of the past, relics of what used to be sparks between the two of them. Naush hates them; anything that reminds him that what’s in history isn’t static. Anything that stirs the heartstrings and makes a sound. Naush hates them.

Yet, the Polaroids are still in his pocket wherever he goes. The lucky condom one keeps in one’s wallet. The receipt of the gift you bought for a significant other. The heinous song is saved in one’s Spotify because it resembles a certain frame of time. It is atrocious not to throw them out but abominable to ditch the proof that you have had them in your grip once. There was a time when they were documentaries of your universe, keepsakes that told your history. What hubris would you have to live with to destroy them? How oblivious must you have been to let them deteriorate in a cold, dark dustbin where thousands of people dispose of their unrecognizable moments? Where plastic beads kill the tortoises?

Hence, the Polaroids are still in his pocket, in his wallet, an instrument that he flicks open to survive each day. He hates them, but they are there, forever there.