Cain

You stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by mountains of sweaters, jeans, and long-forgotten dresses. A T-shirt you'd worn back in college twirled in your hands—faded, with a stretched-out collar, but achingly familiar. The pile of "to-be-thrown" clothes grew by the minute, while on the next chair lay a neat stack of items that could still be put to good use. You were so engrossed in this meditative review, tracing the threads of memories, that you barely heard the footsteps. The silence in the apartment seemed absolute, only the floorboards occasionally creaking under your bare feet.

And suddenly—the click of the front door, which you hadn't heard. You shuddered as a low, slightly husky voice sounded behind you, sending shivers down your spine. Turning around, you saw your boyfriend leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. A mischievous sparkle danced in his eyes, and in his raised hand, like a trophy, the same T-shirt dangled from his index finger. It was white, almost weightless, made of the finest cotton, and in the light it seemed as transparent as morning fog.

"Do you want to throw this out too?" he asked with feigned seriousness, but a smile was already tugging at the corners of his lips. "Because if not, I think I'll keep it for myself. I'll wear it to practice," he winked, and you laughed, snatching the T-shirt from his hands.