I've always been someone who loves to "collect" old things.

I remember during holidays, the first thing everyone did was throw away all their books, test papers, and everything else. Back then, test papers from the whole grade would fly everywhere between the teaching buildings, like a heavy snowfall—an incredibly spectacular scene. But I didn't participate; I always thought keeping these things might come in handy someday.

As a result, those textbooks and papers that didn't fly away with everyone else ended up stored in my home for over a decade, filling every corner. Having nothing to do just now, I finally decided to do a thorough cleanup.

While sorting through things, I pulled out a bright red piece of clothing. It was one I used to love wearing most, but after so many washes, the collar had already faded to white. I held it up and chattered to my mom:

Mom, do you remember this? I really loved wearing it back then.

Mom wasn't in a hurry to work; she just stood by watching me with a smile. She listened as I explained the origin of each piece of clothing and why I liked it back then. Looking back now, many of my aesthetic preferences were indeed quite childish, but that feeling of me tidying up while Mom listened to my rambling made me realize I was personally saying goodbye to that carefully preserved era of my youth.

What I found hardest to part with were those old school uniforms. They recorded my journey over the years:

• The iconic blue-and-white style from my time studying in Shenzhen, instantly recognizable outside;
• The design changed after I transferred back to my hometown school in ninth grade;
• And my later high school uniform.

On the backs and cuffs of the uniforms, there were still sentences I'd handwritten back then, along with a signature I'd practiced for ages. After so much time, the black ink had faded to a very faint shade, and I had to lean in close to read that line:

Keep going—success is just one step away.

That was a sign I saw halfway up Huangshan Mountain in 2015. Exhausted at the time, I looked up and saw those words, finding them deeply inspiring. I went home and wrote them on my uniform. Now, seeing these blurred characters is like seeing my clumsy yet earnest younger self.

Gritting my teeth, I stuffed all these old clothes into a huge bag and carried it downstairs.

When I tied the bag tightly and lifted it, the weight was astonishing—the plastic handles dug painfully into my hands. In that moment, I truly felt how heavy this pile of memories was that I'd been dragging along. After discarding the clothes, the once-packed corner was now empty.

Now, stacks of old books saved since elementary school still sit before me. Looking at them, I always recall that version of myself who didn't join everyone in "throwing away paper scraps."

Honestly, that "reluctance to part" feeling hasn't lessened at all—it's just that now, I can steel myself to say goodbye.

Ink fades, old clothes bleach white, but the words written on those garments have long since become part of my bones.

Perhaps what I discarded were old objects, but what I carried away was that once-fearless version of myself.

With the New Year approaching, this is my way of "bidding farewell to the old and welcoming the new."

To those reading this: Happy New Year. May we all travel light and take that more energetic "next step."