Threads

I take out a sweater and a pair of sweatpants.
I love how worn the sweater is. I like how soft it has become, how the smell of my home is woven into its thinned and yellowed fabric. I love how it is so big, and protects my small body.

I look at them for a long time.

The rising sun, the crescendo of traffic, the bus I always take at 8:44AM, presses me to hurry, but I just can’t stop staring.

Would I look too much like a slouch? Will people think I’m ugly? These pants and this sweater are both grey in colour; I’ll look like I’m wearing pajamas.
These sweats are so old. Threads are coming out like fallen hairs. This sweater is too big.

I blink, and finally let go of my breath.
I put away the sweater– tuck it into the far back of the drawer.
I pull out a newer top.
It doesn’t hug me the way my old sweater does, like kind arms that mould themselves to fit my comfort. Instead, it is tight. It is unforgiving of my hunch, and warps my body to fit its own curves.
I look better this way, I think.
Though, it makes my skin itch the whole day.

I see my friend today.
She is wearing shiny, black shoes that go click and clack when she strides. She is in fitted jeans cuffed perfectly at her ankles. She wears a long, creamy coat. Light in colour as it is, she has somehow kept it spotless.
My eyes drift down at my clothes.
I should have put away these sweatpants too, I think.

I walk on, the rain darkening my shoes, my head a little lower.

 

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