the date today is february 3rd. almost a year has passed and yet the memory of you is still fresh in my mind – you and your scepticism, your unfunny jokes, and your favourite blended cashmere sweater.

i never got to wear it. i've always assumed that it smelled like you: toasted peppermint intertwined with swirls of whiskey and smoke. i don't think you could understand the amount of excitement that bubbled up within me when you offered to let me give it a wear. you said, "you can wear this if you change your mind about that sweater of yours."

you said, "wear this cashmere sweater instead of that one," but you never handed it to me. you placed it on your bureau, threads and threads of brown hanging off its sharp, wooden edge.

now that i think about it, that cashmere sweater was just like you: closed off and far. it would always remain as something that i would never actually touch. i heard your words and felt your skin but i never got to hold your heart. like that cashmere sweater you buttoned yourself up and merely dangled off a cliff, refusing to be pulled back up: miles and miles of skin and emotion fortifying the version of you that i knew was helpless on the inside.

you were like that blended cashmere sweater:

you were choosing to be alone.