They wouldn’t just be taking a dusty cereal box or a forgotten rice cooker. They’d be stealing a snapshot of your life—an accidental archive of your habits, your chaos, your quiet routines. That cluttered space above the fridge isn’t just storage; it’s a shrine to the things you didn’t have time to put away, the things you meant to fix, the things you swore you’d deal with tomorrow.
Maybe they’d find a half-used roll of duct tape, a stack of unopened mail, or a jar of coins you’ve been meaning to cash in. Maybe it’s vitamins you keep forgetting to take, or a birthday card from someone who still believes in you. Maybe it’s nothing valuable at all—just a plastic container with no lid, a bag of stale chips, or a broken appliance waiting for a miracle.
But in stealing that, they’d be taking something more intimate than jewelry or electronics. They’d be taking the evidence of your everyday survival. The proof that you live here, that you’re trying, that you’re human.
And maybe, just maybe, they’d leave with a little more than they bargained for: a glimpse into a life that’s messy, real, and quietly resilient.
