The Unheard Rhythm of a Red Thread

I remember forcing a small smile and saying a dry, careless, “Thanks,” before folding it and setting it aside. I didn’t hug her. I didn’t try it on. I didn’t even notice the way her hands lingered in the air for a second, grasping at a thank-you that never truly came.

I didn’t see how much of herself she had stitched into every loop. At eighteen, I wanted independence, not reminders of how little money we had. I wanted concerts, friends, noise, life.