Page 3 of Letting Go

I’m halfway through the produce section, mentally debating two nearly identical heads of broccoli, when I hear a voice that makes me freeze mid-reach.

“Oh my God, is that you?”

I turn. And there she is.

Kiera. My little sister. College sophomore and eternal golden child.

Chapter 2

I watch her, standing there like she’s never had to fake a smile a day in her life. She's in leggings and a hoodie, the kind of casual, effortless look that takes some kind of magic to pull off. Her hair looks like she rolled out of bed, but not in the way that makes you want to curl up in a ball and pretend the world doesn’t exist. No, her bedhead is perfect. Her skin is glowing like she’s some sort of walking Instagram filter, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s ever once cried in a bathroom stall at work. I know I have.

"Hey," I say, my voice a little too casual, a little too practiced, like I didn’t just die inside a little when I saw her. "Didn’t expect to see you today."

She shrugs, completely unfazed, like she’s not the kind of person who makes everything look easy. "Class got cancelled. Figured I’d stock up."

Must be nice. Must be so nice to stock up on groceries using the credit card your parents pay off every month. But, of course, I don’t say that. I never say it.

They like to act like we’re equals. Like she’s not their miracle baby and I’m... well, whatever the opposite of a miracle is. I put myself through college while they were busy “recovering from bad investments,” which, shocker, magically resolved just in time to foot the bill for Kiera’s tuition. Funny how that works.

Her eyes flick down to the sad, wilting broccoli in my cart, and I can almost hear the judgment. "Trying something new?"

I force a smile, tight and brittle. "Just cooking dinner."

"For Mike?"

"Yeah," I say, a little too quickly.

She nods, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Cool."

And then I see it. The hoodie. That fucking hoodie. The one I’ve been searching for, desperately searching for, since last weekend. I freeze for a second, because there’s no way... right? It’s hers. She’s wearing it. My hoodie. The one I thought I lost. My fingers twitch at my side.

“Is that mine?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t even know why I’m asking. I’m already pissed, already spiralling into a mess of unnecessary emotions.

She looks at me, eyes widening slightly, a nervous tension creeping into her voice. "Uh... yeah, I guess I must’ve borrowed it."

I stare at her, blinking hard, because what the hell? "Don’t remember giving it to you."

She’s fidgeting now, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. "It’s just a hoodie."

"It’s not just a hoodie," I snap, before I can stop myself.

She rolls her eyes, and the tension thickens. "Why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice calm. "I’m not making a big deal. I’m just asking when you took it." It’s supposed to sound casual, but the words come out too sharp. Too loaded. She can tell, I can tell, and now we’re both stuck in this weird, uncomfortable space.

Without another word, she pulls the hoodie off, right there in the middle of the aisle, tossing it at me like it’s some kind of insult. "Fine, here’s your precious hoodie," she snaps, her voice cold as ice. And then she storms off, leaving me standing there, holding my hoodie like it’s some kind of prize I never wanted in the first place.

People are staring, and I can’t tell if I want to scream or just melt into the floor. Instead, I stand there, awkwardly clutching the damn thing while the world continues to spin around me.

I finish my shopping in a daze. I can’t shake the weird, sharp taste of that moment. It sits in my chest, heavy, making everything feel rawer than it should. When Ifinally get to the car, I’m almost relieved just to be away from the store, away from the world, even if I’m still stuck in this mess of a feeling.

The moment I sit down in my car, I do the thing I’ve been trying so hard not to do. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in, hoping to stop this weird, acidic knot in my stomach from eating me alive. My fingers are still curled around the hoodie, like I’m holding onto the last bit of control I have left. I’m not even sure why it matters so much. It’s just a hoodie. Right?

But the thing is, it’s not just a hoodie. It’s my hoodie. And I’ve never been good at sharing things that are mine. Not since... well, since I stopped pretending that everything was okay. The way she tossed it at me, like it was some unwanted thing, it felt like she was tossing something else. Something I couldn’t quite name. It was hers now, somehow. And I hated it.

I turn the key in the ignition, but the engine’s just a low hum, and it feels too loud. Too exposed. I just want to leave. I need to leave, to forget this. But I can’t stop thinking about her or the way she looked at me, like I was some kind of inconvenience. She was perfect. So perfect. And I wasn’t. I never would be.

I grip the wheel a little too tight, so tight I can feel the muscles in my arms tense and strain. My thoughts race, all jagged and messy, looping around the same damn thing. “It’s just a hoodie.” That’s what she said. But it’s not, is it? It’s never just a hoodie.

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