"His Hoodie Still Smells Like Him"

              

🖤 His Hoodie Still Smells Like Him

It’s been 23 days since he left.

And yes — I’ve counted every one of them. Because each morning when I wake up, I turn toward the side of the bed he used to sleep on, and it’s still cold. Still empty. Still him, in a way.

His hoodie still hangs on the back of my door. The one I wore on that rainy night when we ran down 5th Street after the bakery closed early and he said, “You look better in it than I do.”

He was lying. He looked like home in it.

I wear it now more than ever. Not because I’m cold. But because it still smells like him.

That soft, woody cologne. That strange mix of his shampoo and old books. That scent that used to live in my neck when he’d hug me from behind in the kitchen.

I keep replaying the last evening.

The way he kissed my forehead and said, “It’s not goodbye. It’s just… not now.”

He had to leave. Some job abroad. Some dream I couldn’t ask him to pause. I didn’t cry — not in front of him. But when I got home, I sat on the floor of our bedroom, buried my face into that hoodie, and shattered.

People keep saying, “You’ll move on.”

But I don’t want to move on.

Because loving him never felt like something to recover from. It felt like a melody that still echoes through quiet rooms, like a warmth that doesn't go cold just because the person does.

Yesterday, I found the movie ticket he left in my wallet. The one from our first date.

“Worst movie ever,” I had whispered halfway through.

“And still the best night of my life,” he’d replied.

I remember how nervous he was that night. How he reached for my hand during the credits and asked, “Is it okay if I fall in love with you?”

I didn’t say anything then. I just leaned my head on his shoulder and thought, Too late. I already have.

Some days I write him letters I’ll never send. Just to feel like I’m talking to him.

Other days, I sit in the hoodie, legs curled up on the couch, and play the playlist he made for me — full of songs that now hurt in all the right places.

And then... there are nights.

Nights when the air gets colder than it should, and I swear I can feel his arms around me — even if it’s just the sleeves of his hoodie brushing against my cheek.

He promised he’d come back.

He said “give me one year.”

And so, I’m counting — not just the days, but the heartbeats between them.

Because this hoodie?

It still smells like hope.

Like love that didn’t die, just… paused.

Like a promise wrapped in cotton and memory.

And until the day he walks through that door again — smiling, tired, with messy hair and open arms —

I’ll be right here.

Wearing his hoodie.

Breathing him in.

And loving him in silence.

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