don’t sleep.
I try.
I lie back down, stare at the ceiling, tell myself I’m exhausted enough to pass out.
My brain has other plans.
Every time I close my eyes, I see fabric—the soft, worn cotton of that band tee; the scuffed leather of the jacket I thought had been left on a New Jersey sidewalk; the frayed hem of the shorts he used to drag me back to bed by, laughing.
He kept them.
Not tossed in a box. Not crumpled in some forgotten corner.
Hung up.
Preserved.
Curated.
At some point, I stop pretending I might drift off and sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool under my bare feet. Soft light from the bedside lamp paints everything in warm gold.
My gaze drifts back to the open wardrobe.
The jacket hangs there, dark and familiar. Before I can talk mys
