"Your room looks like a museum," he told me the first time I let him into my bed. He traced the trinkets on my shelves, then paused to look at the wall covered in postcards. "The Museum of Envy."
I wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a compliment, but I took it as one. The wall has changed since then. The postcards have made place for vintage maps of places I hope to visit again one day, for boarding passes from long ago trips, for bank notes from faraway places, for illustrations and pictures and images that would make my friends say: "Yeah, that's Envy."
My memory wall is a museum. The museum of me and everything I love.