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The man whose shirt I probably messed up.

He did not touch me back, did not console me, but having him there, even immobile, was enough for me.

He still had his body tight and rigid like the day of the kiss. He still refused any contact with me, just like back then, but that is okay.

He covered me with his jacket. And maybe I can keep it like I have kept a lot of him with me.

Like his notebook, his shirt when he once forgot it, his hoodies from when he runs with Dad. Most of them were my father’s, but if Dan wore them even once, then they became his. Do not ask me why. It is the law. Then there is a scarf that he gave me because it got cold. A book about law. Make that plural. A pen. Okay, pens, plural again.

And no, I am not a stalker. I just like collecting. And by collecting, I mean the things that belong to him.

But he’s not here now.

And there is a hole the size of a continent in the pit of my stomach because now I am thinking he’s abandoned me and I need to deal with these jumbl