Ink & Shadows: The Words of Osiris j Reapor

The alarm sounds on her phone, pulling her out of a dream she’d been trying to hold onto. She reaches for it automatically, still half asleep, and the message waiting there makes her smile before she’s even fully aware of herself.

She taps the screen with her thumb. The words glow bright in the dim room, familiar enough to feel like morning routine. The line is enough to nudge her into the day.

She sets the phone down and reaches for the black hoodie at the foot of her bed. It’s soft from too many washes, sleeves slumped like they’ve lost their shape. She folds it over her arm and walks to the bathroom, the tile cool under her feet.

On the counter sits the nearly empty bottle of Bleu de Chanel. She gives the hoodie two short sprays. The scent rises immediately, filling the room with warmth. She breathes it in deeply, holding it for a second longer than she means to.

She pulls the hoodie over her head. It’s a little too big, but not enough to swallow her—just enough to feel like him. She presses her face into the collar as she walks into the living room and sinks onto the couch.

The scent nudges loose a few memories. Him draping the hoodie over her shoulders outside the theater. Him complaining she’d stolen it and he’d never get it back. Him kissing her nose the last time they’d gone out.

She pulls her knees in, the hoodie gathering around her like a blanket. She closes her eyes and lets herself drift into a daydream—nothing specific, just the feeling of being held by something warm and familiar.

She opens them again at the sound of the front door unlocking. She sits up fast, heart jumping. For a split second she thinks it’s him.

But it’s her brother. He pauses in the doorway, eyes soft, careful. “You doing okay?”

She nods. It’s easier than saying anything. She curls back into the couch, hoping he won’t notice the way the moment cracked open inside her.

The scent is already thinning. It always fades faster than she wants it to. She breathes in again. The warmth is mostly memory now. She stands and wraps her arms around herself as she walks back to her bedroom. The sun is already setting. She doesn’t know where the day went.

Her phone waits on the bed. She picks it up. The message is still on the Lock Screen, bright and easy:

Good morning, baby girl. I love you and I miss you, and I’ll see you in a little bit. Also, can I have my hoodie back, please!?

She smiles again, but the shape of it changes halfway through.

The message is nearly a year old.

He isn’t coming for the hoodie.

He isn’t coming to see her.

He isn’t anything but a memory now.

She sets the phone down gently. The scent on the hoodie is almost gone, but she pulls the hood closer anyway.

“Not yet,” she whispers.

And for one more moment—small and borrowed—she gets to pretend he’ll ask for it back.