The blazer still smells like cedar. And copper. And forever.
I’m wearing the blazer now as I write this. It’s heavy. Not from the wool, but from the weight of being wanted so completely that no one else is allowed to exist. yandere blonde blazer
That night, I found a small velvet box in the left pocket. Inside wasn’t a ring. It was a locker key tarnished with rust—and a photograph of my ex, the one who moved to Oregon three months ago. In the photo, he’s smiling at a coffee shop. In the photo, someone has drawn a red circle around his temple. The blazer still smells like cedar
On the back, in elegant handwriting: “He touched your hand once. I was patient. Don’t make me patient again.” I’m wearing the blazer now as I write this
Eli is standing outside my window. He’s not looking at me. He’s sharpening something small and silver in the rain.