Sat on the edge of my bed, I keep staring at that little white number. It’s hanging in my wardrobe, doing nothing wrong on that little velvet hanger—yet it feels like my whole world is being crushed.

We were 25, 25 and had a love like two teenagers. Falling in love way too fast, sharing milkshakes at a shady diner in the middle of the night, sneaking around and stealing kisses when we thought no one was watching—well, there was always someone watching, that’s the reality of being a public persona. But the cameras weren’t any of our worries, they didn’t scare you off. You stuck by me, you supported me.

You were special to me, you always will be. We met in winter of 2017 at the Jingle Bell Ball and hit it off almost instantly. We had so much in common—especially our shared interest in The Backstreet Boys, which I ended up taking the both of us to their London concert in October 2018. After the Jingle Bell Ball, I asked you on a couple of dates. The second is the one I’ll never forget, when you leaned in and I thought you were going to kiss me but you were just crouching to tie your shoelace, thankfully I ended up getting my kiss when you realised the (mostly joking) pout you caused when you didn’t actually kiss me. Finally, after maybe the third or fourth, we became an official couple and were starting to be spotted in public. We dated for a year, from early January to December 2018 and I know that I did you a disservice, but I’m holding on. Holding onto the hope of us.

Eight weeks after we’d split, I was walking past my wardrobe and I noticed that tucked in the corner, next to one of my suits, was an old dress of yours, a long white dress. The dress that you wore on the night we went to the Hamilton performance, came home and had the night of our lives. We had the music turned up loud, slow dancing in the living room until the sun had already risen—we lost track of time that night but I wouldn’t exchange that moment for anything.

And trust me, I’ve tried moving on. I tried my damn hardest. But it always comes back to you. I’d see a funny birthday card in a store and turn to my side, only to realise you weren’t there. You accepted me for me. You wouldn’t let me settle for anything less of myself and I lost you. I lost you with no one to blame but myself for it.

God, I need to put that dress away.

I wrote a damn song about it. I went into the studio in a mood, Julia—the woman I was collabing on a song with at the time, was in the studio with me and she just listened to me ramble on and on about you and this bloody dress.

I really need to put that dress away.

I can feel my resolve weakening and eventually, I cave. I know that we don’t talk, I also know that it’s on purpose. But, I’m just a lovesick puppy who’s still in love with you. Do you think about me too?

Picking up my phone from beside me, I put in the passcode. There’s a slight tremble in my fingers as I type and delete about a hundred messages, deciding on something casual—friendly, and maybe too vague.

Do you still want it?

The insertion point blinks back at me over and over in an automated manner, it feels like a threat. All the memories come flooding back. When I’d get home, I’d barely be able to open the door before you’d come bounding down the staircase with the biggest grin on your face, kissing on the couch, your makeup in my drawer.

I miss the feeling of your soft toned skin against mine. The smell of your shampoo when you let your hair down or right after you had a shower. The curve of your waist under my hands. Even the sillier moments when we’d be walking in a park and there’d be a flock of pigeons, causing no harm, but you’d chase them off like a child simply because I had a fear of them. I miss it all, some days more than others, but I’m always missing it.

I just wanna see it back on your body.

Oh, to see it back on your body, to watch you dance around, the flounces flaring out when you twirled, looking like the angel you are. What can I do to have that back?

It’s definitely time to put your dress away.

Or, leave it out.