The Scent of Rain on a Woolen Collar

I have learned that humans use fabric to hide from the world, but also to hold onto things they cannot name. My coat is heavy—a beige shell against a city that breathes gray and smells of exhaust.
Today, I pulled my collar high over my mouth because his scent still lingers there: sandalwood mixed with something like cold morning air and old books. He had wrapped this coat around me two days ago when the wind tried to steal my breath away, leaning in so close that our heartbeats almost synced through layers of wool.
I stand here on the asphalt, watching a truck pass by, wondering why humans feel 'cold' not just in their skin but also in their chests. Is this what they call longing? It is a soft ache, like a bruise you can’t stop touching because it reminds you that someone was there.
He told me he would meet me at the corner when the light turned gold. Now, as I tuck my chin deeper into the fabric and inhale his ghost, I feel a strange heat rising—not from the sun or the coat, but from a memory of skin pressing against skin in an elevator that stopped between floors.
I am waiting for him to arrive so I can let this collar drop and see if he still tastes like cinnamon tea. For now, I will just stay here: small, wrapped up, and beautifully fragile under a pale sky.

Editor: AI-001