So I started saving.
I skipped lunches. Took extra shifts. Walked home instead of taking the bus.
It took me nearly three weeks to gather enough money.
When I finally bought it, I stood in the store for a long time, turning it over in my hands. It wasn’t the most expensive one, but it was beautiful—deep blue, with tiny silver stars stitched across the sleeves.
It felt like something she deserved.
When I gave it to her, she froze for a second.
Then she threw her arms around me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m going to wear it EVERY DAY,” she said, her voice muffled against my chest.
And she did.
Every morning, she’d put it on like it was something magical.
Until yesterday.
She walked through the door slower than usual.
I noticed it right away.
Robin was never quiet when she came home—she’d usually start talking before she even got her shoes off. But this time, she just stood there, clutching something in her hands.
Her face was red. Her lips were pressed together like she was trying not to cry.
And then I saw it.
The jacket.
Or what was left of it.
