4
Lena.
I didn’t mean to wear his shirt.
That part was genuinely an accident.
The laundry got mixed up, and that was not a big surprise, considering the tiny hallway where our clothes hung to dry. His stuff leaned into mine, my stuff leaned into his. And in the half-sleep blur of morning, I grabbed the first thing that felt soft and oversized and smelled like cedar and a little bit like him.
I didn’t even realize it wasn’t mine until I caught myself in the mirror.
It was a deep navy button-down. Worn thin. The kind of shirt men only own one of and wear until it dissolves. It hung loose on me, draping just enough to suggest a shape without really showing anything. But the hem barely hit mid-thigh, and I hadn’t bothered with anything underneath.
I stood there, toothbrush in my mouth,
