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i stared at harlow's contact for a long, long time before texting him.
corlan : you gave her your sweater
he read the text almost immediately, but it took an even longer stretch of time before his response came in.
harlow : it's just polyester
i blew out a slow, shaky breath.
corlan : but you like her better
harlow read the message but didn't respond ; he wasn't leaving me on read, he was leaving the conversation ; we both were, because there was simply nothing more either of us could say.
he did like her better. it was just a fact, something that slowly killed me bit by bit every time i thought about it. it was undeniable, inescapable, and though i still wished i were heather, wishing did nothing. it wasn't enough – would never be enough.
it was just polyester, just polyester, and yet it meant so much more than that.
