Remember when you held up my tiny tank top and asked coldly what it was doing in your drawer? You glared at me like my shirt was a grenade moments away from annihilating your entire neighborhood, rather than the innocent piece of black fabric I knew it to be.

God forbid I take up two inches of your precious closet space.

If this had been days or even weeks into our relationship, I might have understood, but this was several months of regular sleepovers and the official label of “Girlfriend”. So why were you so possessive of your space? Why couldn’t you make room for me in your life? Were my actions so outlandish and overly-familiar that you felt the need to lash out over a shirt?

That silly shirt has since become a symbol of everything I’m looking for in future relationships.

I want someone who knows my tank tops have nestled in few drawers other than my own. I want someone who recognizes how lucky he is to take off my shirt. I want someone who feels proud to have an article of my clothing tucked away in a corner of his room – a guarantee of future visits.

You might not have thought about it that way. In fact, I’m pretty sure you never grasped the enormity of the situation at the time. But your spiteful, entitled attitude should have sent me running.

I kick myself for trying to make you like me when clearly, you didn’t even like my shirt.

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