Instructions For Sewing a Shadow

First, wait until he’s sleeping— the kind of sleep only boys with unbroken hearts can manage. Quiet as snowfall, gather the pieces he keeps losing: the part that doubts, the part that wants, the part that promises tomorrow. Lay them across the floorboards like a crime scene or a pattern to follow. In low lamplight you’ll see they’re thinner than you remember— shapes that flicker when you look too closely, dark where your hands have worn through. Thread your needle with promise. Not the pink kind, or the kind whispered in the warmth of June— use the winter-thread, the one strong enough to hold a man to himself. Stitch gently. Shadows bruise easily. When he stirs, say, It’s nothing. Keep working. Tug—not too hard, not too soft— the balance you learned from loving people who never learned you. If the seams don’t hold, if the shadow slips free the moment he runs, don’t blame your hands. They were steady. It’s just that some men prefer to travel light. And if you find yourself alone by morning, needle cooling in your palm, thread slack with goodbye— fold the shadow you saved for him. Place it in a drawer with the other things you repaired that no one returned for. Close it. Turn away. Notice how your own shadow moves with you— how it never needed stitching to stay.