The Girl Who Collected Goodbyes - By Minha Shamsudheen

Written By: Minha Shamsudheen

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Immerse yourself in "The Girl Who Collected Goodbyes," a poignant short story by Minha Shamsudheen. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this narrative explores the delicate art of holding onto memories while navigating farewells. Minha's storytelling captures the essence of human connection and the tangible remnants left behind by those we love. Her work delves into themes of memory, loss, and the comfort found in cherished mementos.

About the Work

"The Girl Who Collected Goodbyes" is a tender exploration of the objects we hold dear and the stories they tell. Minha Shamsudheen skillfully weaves a tale of nostalgia, capturing the emotional weight of everyday items infused with personal history. Through vivid imagery and a gentle narrative style, the story conveys a profound message about love, loss, and the enduring power of memory.

The Girl Who Collected Goodbyes

Original Submission by Minha Shamsudheen

The Girl Who Collected Goodbyes

I began collecting goodbyes when I was eight.

The first was a blue hair clip my cousin left behind when her family moved to Canada. It was nothing special, really: plastic, slightly scratched, with one rhinestone missing from the centre. I found it beneath the sofa after they had gone, when the house still smelled of cardamom coffee and her strawberry shampoo. I put it in an old biscuit tin beneath my bed because throwing it away felt too much like throwing her away. After that, I began to notice how often people left things behind. A cinema ticket from the afternoon my best friend changed schools. A friendship bracelet from a girl who stopped speaking to me. A dried bougainvillea petal from the day my brother left for university. A train ticket from the station where my father had once stood waving until I could no longer see him. Each object received a small paper label in my handwriting: who, where, when. The biscuit tin became two boxes, then three, then six. I never told anyone what they contained. They were my insurance against forgetting.

My grandmother discovered them on a Thursday afternoon while looking for a sewing needle. She sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor, surrounded by my carefully labelled fragments, her silver hair escaping from its braid and her glasses slipping down her nose. She picked up the blue hair clip and turned it between her fingers.

“You kept this?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I looked at her as though the answer were obvious. “Because she left.”

Grandmother studied the boxes. “And you think this keeps her here?”

I didn't answer.

Outside, rain had begun tapping against the windows, soft at first and then harder, turning the glass silver. Grandmother lifted the lid of another box. Inside were years of my life: a yellow receipt, a faded photograph, a broken necklace, a concert wristband, a button, three movie tickets and a tiny plastic dinosaur someone had given me when I was six. She smiled at the dinosaur.

“You keep everything.”

“Not everything.”

“Almost everything.”

I took the dinosaur from her. “People leave. Things don't.”

She was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “Sometimes things leave too.”

I hated that answer.

A few months later, Grandmother became ill.

There was no dramatic moment when I understood she might die. It happened gradually, the way evening enters a room. Her footsteps became slower. Her hands trembled when she lifted her teacup. The cardamom tea she made every morning grew weaker because she no longer had the strength to grind the spices properly. Her favourite green cardigan hung loosely around her shoulders, and the house began filling with medicines that smelled sharp and medicinal beneath the familiar scents of turmeric, soap and old books.

I became frightened of ordinary things.

The sound of her coughing from the kitchen. The pause before she answered when I called her name. The sight of her empty chair when she went upstairs. I began collecting things from her too, secretly at first: a loose thread from her cardigan, a recipe written on the back of an electricity bill, a dried jasmine flower from her hair, the little spoon she always used for sugar.

One afternoon, she caught me taking the spoon.

“What are you doing?”

I froze.

“Nothing.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

I put it down.

She looked at me for a long time, and then she understood.

“Oh,” she whispered.

I looked away.

“I just…” My voice broke. “I don't want to forget you.”

Grandmother reached for my hand. Her fingers were warm, though thinner than I remembered.

“You won't.”

“How do you know?”

“Because forgetting isn't what you're afraid of.”

I frowned.

She glanced toward the boxes stacked beside my wardrobe.

“You're afraid of living after people are gone.”

The words landed somewhere deep enough to hurt.

I wanted to argue. Instead, I stared at our hands. Her thumb was rubbing slow circles over my knuckles, exactly as it had when I was little and afraid of thunderstorms.

“I keep things because they're all I have,” I whispered.

“No,” she said gently. “They're all you have left. That is different.”

For the first time, I opened the boxes with her beside me.

She wanted to know every story.

So I told her.

I told her about the blue hair clip and the cousin who lived thousands of kilometres away. I told her about the friendship bracelet and the girl whose name I could barely remember anymore. I told her about my brother's train ticket, the movie ticket from the friend who had hurt me, the dried flower from a summer that seemed impossibly far away. Some stories made Grandmother laugh. Some made her shake her head. Some made us both quiet.

When we reached the green cardigan, she touched the loose button I had taken from its sleeve.

“You stole that.”

“I was preserving it.”

“You stole it.”

I laughed despite myself.

She smiled.

Then she held out her hand.

“Give it back.”

I placed the button in her palm.

She closed her fingers around it and said, “Good. Now we have somewhere to put it.”

The next morning, she asked me to help her get dressed.

She chose the green cardigan.

The loose button hung by two threads.

I fetched the sewing kit.

My fingers trembled as I threaded the needle. Grandmother watched from the edge of the bed, smiling while I struggled with the tiny hole.

“You're terrible at this.”

“You're the one who taught me.”

“Then clearly I failed.”

I laughed.

The needle passed through the wool. Once. Twice. Again. The thread tightened, drawing the button firmly against the green fabric. When I finished, Grandmother looked down at it and ran her fingers over the stitches.

“There,” she said. “Now it's useful again.”

She wore that cardigan for the rest of the week.

On Sunday morning, her room was quiet.

The curtains moved gently in the air-conditioning. Her teacup sat untouched on the bedside table, a thin skin of tea cooling beneath the surface. The green cardigan was folded over the chair.

I stood in the doorway for a long time.

Then I went to my boxes.

I opened the first one.

For years, I had believed that keeping something meant refusing to let it end. Now I understood that memories were not museum pieces. They did not need to remain untouched beneath tissue paper and cardboard. They were meant to be carried, spoken, worn, remembered, and sometimes allowed to become something new.

I took the blue hair clip from its box.

Then the dried flower.

The old receipt.

The friendship bracelet.

One by one, I put them back.

Not because they didn't matter.

Because they did.

I left the boxes open.

And when I finally reached the green cardigan, I did not take the button.

I slipped the cardigan around my shoulders instead.

It still smelled faintly of cardamom and jasmine.

For the first time, I understood what Grandmother had been trying to tell me.

Love was not keeping someone from leaving.

It was letting them leave something behind that could still warm you.

So I wore the cardigan downstairs, opened the kitchen window, and began making tea.

I added the cardamom.

I made it strong.

Exactly the way she used to.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates diverse voices in poetry and creative writing. This prestigious platform offers writers an opportunity to share their unique stories and perspectives with an international audience. The competition showcases exceptional talent and creativity, fostering a global community of artists and storytellers.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Minha Shamsudheen for sharing her compelling short story, "The Girl Who Collected Goodbyes," in our competition. Her narrative touches on the universal themes of memory and connection, resonating deeply with readers. It has been a privilege to feature her work in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.