Bonnie and Clyde

I sewed us matching costumes for Halloween. He wore mine with someone else.

His name was Cole. We planned it in August. Bonnie and Clyde. I found a vintage-style jacket at a charity shop and spent three weekends stitching it. A pinstripe waistcoat for him, hand-sewn buttons, a tiny hidden pocket on the inside so he could keep his phone. I made a little red beret for me. I was so proud.

We broke up in September. A quiet, tired talk on a park bench. He said, "I don't think I'm in love with you anymore." I said, "Okay." The jacket stayed in my wardrobe, wrapped in tissue paper, like a body.

I should've thrown it out. Burned it. Donated it. But it had my fingerprints in every seam. I couldn't.

Last night, scrolling at 2 AM, I saw a photo from a Halloween party. Our friend Dev had posted a group shot. And there, in the middle, grinning, arm around a girl in a red beret, was Cole.

In the waistcoat. My waistcoat. The pinstripe one I'd spent twelve hours on. Right down to the crooked button on the left.

I'd given it to him in September, in a carrier bag, when he came to collect his things. "Keep it," I'd said. "No point wasting it."

I zoomed in. The new girl was laughing.

He was smiling.

He looked really good.

I'd stitched his happiness myself.

I just hadn't realised it would fit someone else.