When Drew lived with me, he was obsessively clean. Two showers a day. Terrified of contamination. The kind of clean where I worried he was waterboarding himself in there. He liked smelling nice. In ways that satisfied his inner secret girliness. Native brand shampoo. Cucumber and mint, I think. When he left, he left behind four things: A phone charger he'd cut off at the head A stash of peanut butter he kept in his room (left on the toilet lid) A huge dismembered tree branch he wanted to turn into furniture A mostly full bottle of shampoo Three of those things went in the trash. The shampoo stayed. It was still good. It smelled like him. He couldn't take it where he was going. I used that bottle for months. Every shower, a little piece of him circling the drain. Last week, he died. Hit by a car. He was 31. The bottle is almost empty now. When it's gone, I won't have any physical proof that Drew ever lived in my house. Just blog posts. Just memories. Just hearsay. An empty shampoo bottle is not a high standard of evidence. But it's the only one I've got. Here's my question for you: Think of someone you love. Someone who matters. If they disappeared tomorrow—not died, just vanished—what would you have to prove they were ever here? A voicemail you never deleted? A shirt that still smells like them? A receipt from a meal you shared? Or nothing? I'm not asking to make you sad. I'm asking because I think we don't realize what we're keeping until it's too late. Go take a photo. Save a voicemail. Keep the stupid shampoo bottle. You'll thank yourself later.