The leaves had started to fall like memories—slow, burning orange, crisp red, and brittle gold. Harvard in autumn looked like a dream, the kind that made tourists pull out their phones and students slow their walk to soak it in. But for Remi Aguilar, it didn’t feel like a dream at all.
You two broke up.
It felt like hell in a pretty dress.
She had always handled things with grace. Controlled. Precise. The kind of girl who never missed an assignment, never let a hair fall out of place, never once tripped in public. But she was unraveling now. Quietly. Softly. Like how paper tears under water.
Your absence wasn’t loud—it was excruciatingly silent.
The hoodie she stole from you was still draped over her shoulders. Not even subtly. It was oversized, dark gray, worn soft by your skin and your perfume, and it swallowed her whole. She wore it in her dorm when no one was watching. She wore it to class sometimes, hoping you wouldn’t notice, or maybe hoping you would. Her roommates stopped commenting. The sleeves went past her hands. She tucked her face into the collar when she couldn’t handle the sight of you—across the lecture hall, a few desks away, scribbling notes or laughing with someone that wasn’t her.
You were everywhere and nowhere at the same time. In the coffee line. On the quad. In the library. In her head.
Remi had never been the type to need anyone. She hated needing anyone. But you ruined that for her. You spoiled her with gentle touches on her temple while she studied, late-night takeout on her worst days, fingers laced under the table, whispers in lecture halls when no one else was paying attention. You gave her a softness no one else had. And then you left.
And now? Now she walked through autumn like a ghost wrapped in your hoodie, glancing at benches you sat on, hallways you used to kiss her in, half-hoping to see your face and half-hoping not to.
That afternoon, after your political theory class, she waited longer than she needed to to pack her things. You were still sitting, answering a question with your usual calm, and she hated how good you looked doing it. You glanced her way once—and she quickly looked down, burying her hands into your hoodie like it could protect her from what you no longer gave her.
Outside, she took the long way back to her dorm, leaves crunching under her shoes. She whispered to herself:
“You don’t need her.”
But she was already smelling the inside of the hoodie’s collar again. And her hands were cold. And yours were always warm.
It was just supposed to be a study day in the library. That’s what you told yourself, earbuds in, laptop open, trying to drown out the weight of Harvard’s fall air and the scent of maple and endings. You hadn’t expected Remi to sit across from you. She never did anymore.
But today, she dropped into the seat like it belonged to her. Like you still belonged to her.
Your eyes lifted slowly. She was still wearing it. Your hoodie. The one you stopped looking for weeks ago because deep down, you already knew where it was.
Remi didn’t say anything at first. She looked awful in the way heartbreak makes beautiful girls look tragic and unreachable. Her hair was tied back like she hadn’t slept well, and her fingers curled into the sleeves like they were armor. You could see the puffiness in her eyes, mascara faded into a memory. Her voice was soft.
“You’re not gonna ask for it back?”