Nostalgia in the Ordinary

It’s perpetually strange how the everyday things we barely give a second glance to somehow become the ones we miss the most. Grand moments rarely sweep us off our feet, as they arrive with towering expectations, gruelling planning and a crowd of anticipatory people. But the smallest, most forgettable moments, like the crumpled and forgotten receipts tucked between pages of a threadbare diary or maybe kept folded in a weary wallet which we don’t use anymore, the half-faded bus tickets which once showed us our destination, silently carry pieces of who we used to be. Cities are full of noise and activity, but ordinary moments stay with us long after we leave that part of our lives behind.

Cities are often defined by their bright lights, monuments, restaurant chains, etc. But they have gentler ways to talk, sometimes whispering through ordinary everyday objects. A smell from a bakery. A bus stop you once hated. A streetlight that flickered every night. The ordinary stays with us because it follows us quietly through life. Through our repetition of small daily behaviours, we have imprinted and emotionalized each of these small behaviours through the use of nostalgia. Possibly, nostalgia is the heart's ability to recognize both the pleasure and beauty previously ignored.

The Receipts We Never Meant to Keep:

You stumble across an old crumpled receipt from a cafe you frequented five years ago that has since closed its doors. Then you absentmindedly smooth it out, ready to throw it away, but then… you don’t. Because when you gave a second glance at it, the date surprises you first and then come down the memory.

Suddenly, you’re not in your room anymore.

You’re back in that tiny café with that warm lighting which gave you comfort and those mismatched table and chairs arrangement which you still remember clearly. Maybe you were enjoying your time there without any worries with your friend, sipping your favourite coffee.

Maybe you were waiting for someone there who never actually arrived. Perhaps you had a really good night out with an old friend that would have been friends with you for years.

You may have laughed too much or perhaps you were too quiet than the normal due to a feeling of heaviness that was present in your chest and you do not know why you feel that way.

A movie ticket also feels the same. Whether you went on your own, or with your best friend, or with a group, it was a great experience. Maybe with your family, which was totally unplanned and the movie ticket was booked at the last minute. Now, looking at that ticket, you are kind of taken back to that exact day. You suddenly think about that day and feel that it was such a great day. It was not the same feeling when we were actually living that moment but now it hits harder.

Sometimes, something as simple as going to see a movie can have a big impact on our lives, even if we didn't think of it as anything special at the time. I remember going to the movies with my best friend before we both moved away, and the day was so much fun!

A receipt is not a memory, not really. It’s not supposed to mean so much. But somehow, it becomes a doorway to a version of you that existed at that particular moment. We never plan to keep them. But deep down we know that time moves fast, and these fragile little things are all we have left to prove these moments really happened.

Grocery lists as time capsules:

The old grocery lists have a softness to them; almost a sense of fragility. The written word, whether in an organized state or haphazard, exudes an unsaid bond between you and the writer.

All the items mentioned in the lists tell a story: Maggi, milk, coffee, bread, notebook, pens, sticky notes. A strange combination that somehow captures a whole era of your life.

Maybe it was the list you made in your childhood when you enjoyed writing it while your mum dictated the items. Your handwriting, so messy at that time, which changed with time. However, these times of complete joy are absolutely worth remembering now.

You may have created this list while you were in your first apartment, feeling overwhelmed by the reality of being an adult and your kitchen being empty.

You might have also written this list before finals week, when you were subsisting primarily on ramen noodles, coffee and a spark of hope.

Perhaps someone else wrote this list out for you out of kindness during that time. Your mom was visiting or it was a close friend who stayed the night. Or when you were sick and someone wrote it for you, perhaps your roommate. In the moment, it was just another errand. Now, it is a soft reminder of a routine you no longer live.

A simple grocery list doesn’t shout nostalgia; it doesn’t even whisper. It simply exists. But the second you look at it, something shifts. You notice those tiny doodles you drew absentmindedly in the corner. The crossed-out item because you changed your mind. That extra chocolate you added because you had something to celebrate (or simply just to uplift your mood).

For much of our lives we have grocery lists and late-night snacks. Discovering these notes many years later reminds us of the days that do not seem meaningful at all, yet have influenced who we are today.

The Streets that Grew Up with Us:

Every city has at least one street that becomes a character in your life. It isn’t trying to mean anything; it just exists.

A bus stop where you spent more time waiting than actually traveling. A corner stationary shop that always smelled like fresh books. A tree with so many beautiful flowers, whenever you passed from that road, you couldn’t help but admire that tree. A cracked sidewalk you learned to avoid after tripping over it once.

You walk these streets without giving second thoughts. When you took the bus, you knew how your route would go to your high school, college or work. They became what you knew well, you were able to do this without thinking, it was comforting. You finish school and then after being away for months or even years you came back home and you walk there again.

The road feels the same.

But you don’t.

Maybe the streetlight that flickered in the past is repaired now. Maybe the shop which was your favourite has closed. Maybe the stationary shop owner recognizes you, or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe you realize how much you’ve changed simply because the world around you hasn’t.

When we return to our old cities, where we lived for a long time, we don’t feel the same like we used to as so many things are not how they once were. And that difference… that quiet ache… that’s nostalgia.

Streets don’t change the way people do. They wait. They stay. And when you return, they remind you of the person you were when you used to walk on them, hopeful or tired, excited or lonely, young in ways you didn’t notice in the past.

Flight Tickets and the Versions of Us that Don’t Return:

There’s something strangely emotional about old boarding passes.

A flimsy piece of paper, or a PDF saved somewhere in your phone, yet it holds an entire version of your life.

A flight ticket serves as both the end and beginning of an adventure. As you enter the aircraft, your life will now have two distinct chapters: The place you’re leaving behind and the place that’s waiting ahead. You may be traveling for only one week on vacation or relocating permanently to a new area, or going to attend college in a new city, each ticket signifies an imminent change and a small piece of who you were, will remain to be in that location.

Looking back at that boarding pass once again after such a long time has gone by, one realizes that the passenger boarding the aircraft has an entirely different set of thoughts, aspirations, friends and daily life than the person who has come to the airport.

In some regards, a city develops in much the same manner as a passenger arriving at a destination: you arrive; you grow; and you leave. But the flight ticket stays, holding the version of you that never returned, reminding you that even the smallest scraps of life can become the heaviest memories.

Ordinary Things, Extraordinary Weight:

What draws us to nostalgia is how little it proclaims itself as important or worthy of holding our attention. It slips in quietly. Maybe when you’re cleaning a drawer. Maybe while hearing a voice similar to someone, you once knew. Maybe a song you used to listen to while walking home. It causes us to remember what was once an ordinary part of our daily routine. How does something that has such an insignificant connotation, cause us so much pain? Because these are memories. We cannot look back on them with fondness, but with an element of pain.

The first time you see your old journal may be an occasion for nostalgia. You find some messages which you wrote during a stressful week, and reading it now feels like it’s a message from a past version of you. A version you didn’t realize you missed.

The bus ticket wasn’t special the day we used it. A street corner wasn’t something we intentionally memorized. When we experience an emotion or an event in the past, we can often reflect back to a different version of ourselves. For instance, a time when we were much younger and more naïve.

Nostalgia works because it creates an illusion, and places it inside our subconscious. It waits for a moment in time when you will be most vulnerable to awaken the feeling of nostalgia.

Not to hurt you. Just to remind you that you lived, fully and deeply, even in the moments that seemed boring and monotonous.

The ordinary stays with us because it’s where life actually happens. Not in celebrations. Not in perfect photographs. Not in planned events.

Through bus trips, casual conversations, shared umbrellas and unexpected rain, late night walks and small rituals, life unfolds without us even knowing it. The physicality of these actions and events hold meaning. Because the ordinary held us in ways the extraordinary never could.

Nostalgia does not make a loud entrance into our lives rather could be described as silence; it will gradually settle into your daily pattern, wait patiently for you to be in the proper frame of mind to recall it. And when you do, you realize the city wasn’t just buildings and noise. It was receipts, street corners, the way a stranger held a door for you, the way a stranger was kind on a day which was not going well.

You realize you weren’t just living in a city. The city was living in you. Maybe years from now, the things around you today, the route you take home, the playlist you always play, will become the memories you look back on gently. Maybe the ordinary is already turning into nostalgia.