---
I should've returned it.
Weeks ago, maybe months.
Folded it neatly. Boxed it up.
Dropped it off at his place or left it with a friend.
Cut the thread, closed the chapter.
But I didn't.
Because letting go of a person is one thing.
Letting go of what they touched, what they wore—
that's a whole different battle.
---
His hoodie still smells like him.
That deep, wild scent—
like leather and late nights and every kiss we never got to finish.
Some days, I wear it.
Not because I miss him.
But because I miss her—
the girl who used to curl up in it, feeling safe in arms that weren't meant to keep her.
---
It's funny how clothes remember.
The sleeve still falls over my hand the way it used to.
The fabric still carries warmth even though it's been washed a hundred times.
And the memories?
They cling to it like smoke.
I remember the night he gave it to me.
We were walking home from a party.
I was cold.
He didn't say anything—just pulled it over my head and kissed my forehead like I was his to protect.
And for a second… I believed him.
---
Now, when I wear it, it's not about him.
Not really.
It's about everything I survived.
The silence.
The longing.
The confusion that came after he left and the power I found when I chose not to chase him.
I kept the hoodie.
But I didn't keep the pain.
---
Healing doesn't always look like burning every reminder.
Sometimes, it's choosing to reclaim the story.
To say,
"This meant something. But it doesn't own me anymore."
So when people ask why I still have it, I don't flinch.
"It's just a hoodie," I say.
But between me and the moon?
We know the truth.
---
Some nights, when the world gets heavy, I still pull it over my shoulders.
Not to feel him.
But to feel me—
the girl who once gave everything she had and somehow, still had more left to give.
---
Letting go is messy.
Sometimes it's loud—tears and screams and blocked numbers.
Sometimes it's quiet—folded clothes, untouched playlists, soft goodbyes whispered to an empty room.
For me?
It was both.
But I made it.
---
And this hoodie?
It's not his anymore.
It's mine.