There’s a lunch appointment today. I have contemplated forsaking no fewer than twenty times in my mind. Yet it stayed on the calendar, unyielding. It’s set for 12:30 p.m., and at precisely 12:29, I did at last rouse myself from the bed where lethargy had ensnared me. I stumbled towards the shower, I sent a brief text: “I shall be late.” The hot shower water cascaded over me, a torrent both cleansing and accusing. It was a monumental act, this simple ablution—a decision wrested from the void of indecision, albeit one that required five waking hours to summon the strength to undertake.

Today is supposed to be a fresh start. Fresh feels like white. White means wearing a white shirt. I approached the cupboard, its contents now sparse and echoing the absence that fills this room.  Therein lies a few shirts, and also a white linen shirt, pressed to perfection.

Size M. His shirt. The very one I had procured for him. He, in his haste or indifference, had left it behind, likely unaware of its lingering presence. Our shirts, so alike in appearance, would hardly warrant his notice.

I removed it from the hanger, my fingertips grazing its fabric with an almost hesitant reverence. Without conscious thought, I lifted it close. That scent. His scent. A woody undertone, rich and enduring, a faint remnant of Tom Ford—the cologne I once derided him with playful disdain. How often had I teased him for its potency? And yet now, it is a specter of him, haunting and familiar.

My chest constricted, the ache within tightening its grip. I should have had without thinking, wore it. Oversized linen shirts are my penchant, after all. But the act felt too weighted, too imbued with meaning I dared not confront today.

With deliberate care, I returned it to the hanger, each motion imbued with an unusual sacred solemnity. This shirt, this solitary garment, is all that remains of him within these confines. This cupboard, once filled with his presence, has been emptied with methodical precision—piece by piece, hanger by hanger, drawer by drawer. All his traces erased, save for this lone relic.

One day, I shall need it. When the sadness grows too vast, when the ache consumes me entirely, when I am rendered prostrate upon the floor by the magnitude of my longing—on that day, I shall reach for it.

But not today. Today, my fortitude exceeds expectation. Today, the shirt remains undisturbed, its quiet vigil unbroken. For another day. For another hour of frailty. For another moment when I’m not strong enough. But not today.