He’s still got the T-shirt. It’s not just one I bought for him, it’s one I made. It’s one I poured my heart into and thought about late at night. It’s one I got his opinion on time and time again till he was too frustrated to listen to me talk about it. It’s the one that I wanted to make sure was extra soft so when I leaned my cheek against his shoulder it’d be comfy.
He’s still got the T-shirt and he still wears it. I know because I saw him wearing it. I saw him eight months after he broke us from far away, wearing my design. The design that’s a piece of my heart. He still wears a piece of my heart. And the truth is, I just wish he’d have burned that shirt or had given it away. Maybe then it wouldn’t sting so bad to see other people wearing it.
I wonder if his new girlfriend asks about it. I wonder that when she leans her cheek against his shoulder and thinks about how soft it is, she wonders where he got it. She wonders if he bought it himself or if his mom got it for him. I wonder if he would even tell her the truth if she did ask. Because how someone got a T-shirt isn’t usually as interesting of a story as that one.
I wonder if he wears it and wonders about the girl he left behind. The girl who made him stay up so late sometimes just to talk about nothing. Or if he thinks about the times I’d pull that T-shirt over his head before going to bed. I wonder if he misses the weight of me next to him or if the new girl fills that role perfectly.
I wonder if he sleeps in it sometimes. Or if he dreams in it or absentmindedly runs his hands over the material while thinking about the future. I wonder if he still tells people it’s his favorite shirt if they ask and if he tells them where they could get one too if they wanted. I wonder if in some way he still supports my dreams even if he can’t be a part of them.
It’s just a piece of fabric but that material could tell so many stories. The day that he left he was wearing the exact same shirt. That shirt is covered in memories; good and bad. Mostly bad. But it’s still coated with us and with who we were. He may have only physically taken that shirt with him when he left but he actually took so much more. So, when I look at the shirt that I have that matches his, instead of folding it up and putting at the back of my dresser, I hide it in the back of my closet.
If I was a destination, then he got the tourist merchandise and displays it proudly. I wonder if he thinks it’s a trophy or if he longs for the nostalgia of it all. Or maybe it’s just a piece of clothing in his rotation that’s clean while all the others are in the laundry. Either way, he was a part of my life, and he’s got the T-shirt to prove it.