A Single Shade of Grey

I sleep alone.
Always have.

Sometimes in silence.
Sometimes in sweat.
Sometimes on a pillow
soaked in memories and tears,
threaded through cotton and skin and regret.

There was a T-shirt once—
his.
Soft and grey like November mist,
with a small hole near the neck
and the scent of him deep in every weave.

That morning,
he packed the few things he kept—
razor, toothbrush, aftershave—travel-sized.
Each one zipped away in his toiletry pouch,
like they never belonged with me.

He used my laptop to check into the flight
that would take him away.
He kissed my forehead, ruffled my hair
like he was saying goodbye to a golden retriever.
And then he left.
For good.

He was the man who never stayed long.
Maybe sometimes for the night.
But always gone by morning—
shoes by the door,
touch distracted, fingers already on the phone,
His smile distant already, a mask on just his lips.

And now he had left forever.

I found it curled beneath the sheets—
a faint whiff of his aftershave and body odour
and memories of the last night together
steeped in it,
lingering like an unfinished song.

I texted him.
“You forgot your T-shirt, your favourite one.
Will you come back for it?”

I held my breath and waited—
hopeful, still high on love and denial.

He laughed.
“Toss it,” he said,
like it meant nothing.
It was just another thing he used at night
and tossed at daybreak.

But I didn’t.

Each night, I pressed it to my chest,
blotted tears into its emotionless grey,
lulled to sleep
by the gentle whispers
of our yesterdays and Alprax

I didn’t wash it.
For days.
Not until the scent of him
gave way to the smell of me.

I wore the T-shirt to work on a Friday—
tucked into old jeans,
hidden beneath a jacket,
wrapped under a tie-and-dye stole
like a dirty secret I couldn’t shake off.

I wore it on a plane once,
Alone.
On that trip we’d planned together.
Leaning on his shoulder,
soaring high above the clouds,

I spoke to it.
It spoke back.
In murmurs.
In lies.
In the soft lilt of shallow promises.

Like reruns of a show
that got cancelled midseason.

It still hangs in my closet—
more holes now than cloth,
edges curling like stubborn endings.
The neck frays.
The threads give.
But it stays.

In summer, I wear it
when the heat strips everything else away.

In winter,
I pull it over cotton pyjamas
left behind by someone else—
someone who also left
me behind.