The Red That Wasn’t Worn



She knew the day too well. Her phone blinked with the weight of unsent words. She typed, erased, typed again. Nothing ever felt right. She thought of posting instead, of leaving behind some little trace of herself for the world to see. But she didn’t. Silence became her choice, though it sat heavy in her chest. Not a word, not a sign. Not even the color red.

The day stretched on, long and restless. She had promised herself she wouldn’t go. It wasn’t her plan. Yet suddenly, her gut whispered: go. It was sharp, certain, stronger than the doubts that had kept her still. Before she could reason her way out of it, she was moving.

Her closet waited. She pulled it open and the first thing her eyes found was the red dress. There it was hanging bold and alive, almost watching her. A piece of fabric that felt like a challenge, asking her if she dared to step into it. Her heart beat faster at the thought. Could she carry that color tonight? Could she bear the weight of its voice?

She reached toward it, then stopped. Her hand fell. She turned away. Black and white caught her next-shades of safety, of background, of distance. She tried them on, stared at her reflection. They weren't her. Not tonight. She slipped them off, tried again.
And again. Every choice felt like a question she couldn't answer. Finally, she settled for something quiet. Something that asked nothing of her, that revealed nothing in return.

By then the rain had started. She heard it against the glass, steady and heavy. Her thoughts tangled with the sound: Should I even go? Will I regret it if I don’t? Or worse ...if I do? The streets shimmered under the storm as she stepped outside. For a moment, she thought of walking straight into it, letting it soak her, letting it speak the words she couldn’t. But instead, she opened her umbrella. Always choosing cover over exposure. Always hiding just a little.

The closer she came to the venue, the louder the voices grew, mixing with the hum of the rain. She paused, took a breath, and walked in. The room bloomed with warmth and celebration. She smiled as she was meant to, laughed where she should, moved as though nothing sat heavy in her chest.

She carried herself as if the red dress in her closet had never called her name, as if the rain hadn’t whispered at her to step into it. She acted untouched. She acted steady.

And then her eyes lifted.

There he was.

She froze without meaning to. It hadn’t crossed her mind, not once, that he would be here. Yet there he sat, close enough to see, far enough to remain untouchable. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. She blinked, telling herself to stay composed, to move, to breathe.

She hadn’t worn red. She had hidden from it all evening. Only her bag carried the color, a faint reminder that it hadn’t left her entirely. And still, as her eyes locked onto him, she felt as though the shade wrapped around her fully covering her skin, burning in her chest, echoing in her silence.

She smiled. She laughed. She spoke as though she hadn’t noticed. But all the while, her mind circled back, restless and unrelenting.

How come?

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