The green shirt that is lying in a pile with my other clothes, does not look green to me anymore. I wore it once and washed it about five times because I always forget where I toss it.

As I sit here in the corner of my bed; my eyes burning from lack of sleep but still not tired enough— I see the faded green shirt, crumpled with my old pair of jeans and five other shirts that I never wear. It once meant more to me, that shirt. Now it is just weary and old, collecting memories and dust.

I cannot wear it anymore because the misty green reflection in my eyes take me back, to when I first met you. The smell of cold coffee and the roughness of tissue papers from our first date makes me swoon. It reminds me, of several letters that I wrote to you with silly scribbles on the top and the crossword puzzle that I drew that now deserves a place in your bin. Takes me back to the seashore at night, candle light and the photographs you took of me wearing it. I can still feel the coldness of the plastic cup with the orange slurpee that we shared and laughed till our stomachs hurt, the way you held me every time you came to see me at my place. I think about the weekend we spent together, the matters we argued over; the days, the nights, afternoons and evenings that I cried alone in a grey room while anxiety twisted its knife deeper into my torso. The green shirt in the pile, reminds me of your beautiful smile, yoga class twice a day and how I trusted you with things when I was the most vulnerable and opened up to you and Oh, how you used it against me. Your shirt makes me think of how much my sister liked you, your childish laughter and the short story you wrote about not wanting your shirt back because you think I'm huge and I must have stretched it all out.

Out of all the things that we could and could not have said to each other— I'm sorry for stretching your shirt out.