he gave her his sweater.
the sweater he'd given me all those months ago, the soft oversized heather gray one, the one that smelled of warm cinnamon, harlow's smell.
the sweater he'd said belonged to me.
i had no right to be upset ; i'd returned the sweater to him, it was his again. his to do whatever he liked.
but it still made my chest ache, every time i saw heather wearing it, every single damned time.
