Clothes

Clothes are like a second skin. They don't just shield us from the wind and rain, but also speak the words our mouths cannot. When I was little, my mom picked out all my clothes. She'd say, "This one's durable," "This one's easy to wash," "You'll still fit into this next year." My clothes were always a bit too big back then, with sleeves too long and pant legs too wide, making me look like I was wearing adult clothes. But Mom would fold up the sleeves, secure them with a safety pin, and say, "This will do." I didn't understand why we couldn't buy clothes that fit perfectly. Later, I realized that clothes that fit perfectly are outgrown the fastest. During adolescence, clothes became a declaration. You started choosing your own clothes, caring about colors, styles, and brands. What you wore represented who you were. During that time, there were always a few items in the closet that you bought but didn't dare to wear—too bright, too tight, too unique. They hung there, like unfulfilled versions of yourself. You'd look at them, imagine yourself wearing them, and then close the closet door. After entering the workforce, clothes became uniforms. The shirts for work, the suits for meetings, the casual wear for weekends. Each item corresponded to a situation, a role, an expectation. Standing in front of the closet before leaving the house, you weren't just choosing clothes, you were choosing who to be for the day. Sometimes, you'd miss the clothes from childhood, with their sleeves neatly folded by Mom. Back then, there was no need to choose or think; you just put them on. But some clothes, you'll never throw away. The shirt that helped you ace your interview, the dress you wore on your first date, the sweater your grandma knitted. They hang in the back of the closet, never