The Closet

The quietest room in my house wasn’t the bedroom.

It was the closet.

Every hanger held a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.

There were shirts I wore.

Shirts I almost wore.

Shirts that had become memories while still hanging in front of me.

Jeans don’t argue.

They simply stop agreeing.

Funny how fabric can tell the truth before people do.

I kept one pair because they almost fit.

Another because they used to.

Hope doesn’t always look heroic.

Sometimes it hangs from a plastic hanger for six years.

Every morning I negotiated with cotton.

Pulled.

Turned sideways.

Held my breath.

As if oxygen had somehow become the problem.

The mirror always looked surprised.

The buttons looked nervous.

The belt carried more responsibility than any piece of leather should.

Eventually I’d reach for the same safe shirt.

The forgiving one.

The one that never asked questions.

People think weight changes your body.

Sometimes it changes your wardrobe first.

Your favorite jacket quietly retires.

Your nicest shirt stops getting invited.

The clothes don’t disappear.

They simply become witnesses.

Every closet has ghosts.

Mine wore smaller sizes.

I used to think I was saving those clothes for the future.

The truth is…

They were saving a version of me I was terrified I’d never meet again