Myself in Storage
by Cass
· 31/01/2026
Published 31/01/2026 13:16
I pull the sweater from the back of the drawer
and the smell hits like a wall—
a detergent I used ten years ago,
when I was someone else,
when I still believed in the future.
The scent rises from the wool
like a person waking up,
like my younger self
climbing out of storage,
breathing.
I am dizzy with it.
The recognition is physical—
it travels from my nose
through my chest
and settles somewhere
I can't name.
This is what I smelled like
before I knew about disappointment.
Before I learned the specific way
that love can fail.
Before the thing I wanted
stopped mattering.
I hold the sweater at arm's length,
afraid of breathing it in again,
afraid that if I do
I'll have to acknowledge
that person,
that version of me
who thought she'd become someone
worth becoming.