It’s a habit. Every morning, I walk out the bedroom with a book and pen in hand. Just as the steam rises from the hot mug of coffee in front of me, I open the book. Paragraphs and paragraphs written in the familiar cursive writing lie asleep between its pages. I open the cap of my Hero ink pen, and just like any other day, it throws a tantrum. So I flick it twice, and then poke the nib violently on the page, till, like a squid, it lets out thin black ink. With it, I write the Story of Yesterday. The movie I watched, the new fruit that I tasted, the conversations I had, and the love that I got. Each story, like each day, doesn’t take more than 24 lines. By the end of it, my face is a little moist from the coffee steam, and my heart, a little lighter. I close the book, take a long sip, and begin the day — which, the next morning, would be capsuled into a Story of Yesterday .