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This sweater is too big for him and he knows it… I thought, staring down at the dark brown hoodie folded neatly on my lap. Normally, I’m a messy person. But this… Well… His clothes had a different significance now. I knew I had to treat them like they were fragile, like they were going to disintegrate into dust if I was too rough with them. Before, I would be sitting here, in this hard, uncomfortable chair, and his sweater would be draped carelessly over my knees. I wouldn’t think twice about it. But now, I stared at it hard, playing with the strings that emerged from the two holes near the hood.
He always bought clothes that were too big for him. I never understood it. He thought he was fat, and so, somehow, that justified him wearing baggy clothes. It used to bother me. I like his… Fluff. He’s not fat. He might be a little bit heavier than normal for a guy his age and height, but it wasn’t like he was anything close to fat. A little chubby. But I liked it. I always had.
I smile as I remember how he used to yell at me, blaming his pudge on my cooking. I loved to cook. And bake. I made deserts a lot, and when it came to calories, I didn’t really care to look. He loved eating anything I made for him, but somehow that got me in trouble. This thought made small tears come to my eyes, one slipping from my dark eyelashes and making its’ way down my cheek.
When it found my chin, I brought my hand up and brushed it away gently, sniffing as I forced myself to get a grip. I had to stop thinking. It wasn’t the time to think of memories. I was worrying myself over nothing. Demitri isn’t dead. And he’s not going to be for a long time. We would die on the same day, like we promised, hand in hand. He was going to be alright. I force myself to smile a little, even though I’m alone and don’t have anyone to assure but myself. My green eyes flicker to the white tiles before me, and then right back to the sweater.
He should be there. In that hospital bed. Like he was twenty minutes ago. He should be there, and I should be sitting by his bedside, holding his hand, brushing his bright red hair from his forehead. Consoling his scared words, even though I felt the exact same way as him. Tiredly, I reach out with one hand as if to take his hand, but then I realized, again, that he wasn’t there. I bring my hand back down and rest it on my knee, my fingers beginning to nervously fiddle with the strings of the ripped hole in my jeans.
He’ll be back. And then I can hold his hand.
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