Still Carrying Those?

Her hands were always cold, so he kept a pair of gloves in his pocket—just in case.

It had started as a joke. One winter evening, she shivered beside him, hands tucked deep into her sleeves, and when he offered his own gloves, she refused with a laugh. “Then what about your hands?” she had said.

He never answered. He simply kept them in his coat, fingers numb, while she blew warm breath into her own cupped palms.

The next day, he bought an extra pair. Not for himself. Not because she asked. Just in case.

The habit stayed. Through snowfall and cold autumn winds, through chilly spring nights when she stubbornly refused to dress for the weather. Even in the summer, when she would nudge his coat and smirk, “Still carrying those?” as if the gesture was ridiculous. He’d only shrug.

He remembered asking her one night, as they walked side by side down the quiet street.

"Why don’t you ever wear gloves?"

She exhaled a cloud of breath into the cold air, tilting her head toward the sky. Then she smiled—small, wistful. “They make my hands feel trapped.”

It wasn’t an answer. Not really.

He studied her profile, the way the corner of her lips twitched upward, just enough to look like a smile but not enough to feel like one. He had seen that expression before—the way she used laughter to smooth over things she didn’t want to talk about.

"But don’t you feel cold?" he pressed.

She let out a soft chuckle, hugging herself. “Maybe.” Then, as if to dismiss the thought, she nudged him with her elbow. “That’s why I have you, isn’t it?”

She said it lightly, teasingly, but something in the way she looked at him, even just for a moment, made his heartache. He wanted to ask again, to push past the way she dodged her own sadness with jokes, but he didn’t. Instead, he slipped his hands into his coat pockets and walked beside her in silence.

After that, he never asked again. He only made sure the gloves were there. Just in case.

The street was nearly empty, the pavement slick with last night’s rain. He walked without a destination, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. His fingers brushed against fabric—soft, worn at the edges.

The gloves.

His jaw clenched. He should throw them away. He should have done it months ago. But instead, they remained. Always in his pocket. Always there.

He exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the cold air.

Why hadn’t he asked?

The thought hit him like a punch to the ribs.

All those times—her hands curled into her sleeves, her forced laughter when he questioned her, the way she’d deflect with a joke or a teasing remark. He’d known something was off. He’d seen it in her eyes. But he never pushed, never made her say it.

And now, he never could.

His grip tightened around the gloves, frustration curling in his chest like a tightening knot. Had she not trusted him enough to tell him? Had she thought he wouldn’t care?

Or worse—had she not cared enough to tell him?

That last thought made something inside him twist, sharp and aching.

He blinked hard against the sting in his eyes. His breath shuddered as he pulled the gloves out, staring down at them in the dim glow of a street lamp. They were the same ones he had bought for her all that time ago. Untouched. Unworn.

Just in case.

A hollow laugh escaped his lips, bitter and quiet.

What was he supposed to do with them now? What was he supposed to do with this feeling, this weight in his chest that refused to leave?

A gust of wind swept past, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined her there beside him, nudging his coat, smirking. “Still carrying those?”

His throat tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image away, but the memory was burned into him.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" he whispered into the night. His voice broke on the last word.

No answer came. Only the wind, the quiet hum of the city around him, and the cold seeping into his fingers—the way it always had.

The gloves felt heavier in his hand now, as if holding onto them was the only thing keeping him tethered. But holding onto them wouldn’t bring her back. It wouldn’t give him the answers that gnawed at his chest, filling the empty spaces she left behind.

He needed to know.

For months, he had avoided the countryside house, the one they had built together, the one they had planned to live in after they were married. It was supposed to be their forever home. Now, it was just a place filled with ghosts of a future that never came to be.

The drive was long, the roads quiet. When he arrived, the house stood still beneath the overcast sky, untouched, waiting.

His fingers hesitated on the doorknob before he pushed it open.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of her—lavender and something warm, something familiar. The floorboards creaked under his steps as he moved through the house, and with every turn, he saw her in the smallest details.

A basket by the door filled with thick socks—because she knew he always forgot to wear them in the winter.

The kettle was already set out by the stove, a tin of his favourite tea beside it.

A chair was placed near the window where the light hit just right—where she knew he liked to sit and read.

His breath hitched as he stepped into the bedroom.

Everything was exactly as she had left it—yet it wasn’t untouched. The blankets were folded back slightly on his side of the bed as if waiting for him. His favourite sweater, freshly washed, lay neatly over the chair. On the nightstand, a small wooden box held spare buttons for his coat, extra batteries for the bedside clock, and the headache pills he always forgot to buy. The curtains were the heavier ones she had chosen, knowing how light triggered his migraines. Even his books were arranged the way he liked, a bookmark placed in the last one he had been reading as if she had saved his place.

Everywhere, in quiet, thoughtful ways, she had made sure he would be okay without her.

And yet, standing there, he wasn’t sure he ever would be.

On the nightstand, something caught his eye—a small, worn notebook. His fingers trembled as he picked it up, flipping through the pages.

Her handwriting. Soft, slanted.

Notes. Lists.

Reminders of things she had done for him, things she wanted to remember. Things she had never said out loud.

"Make sure the heater is set higher at night. He always gets cold, even if he won’t admit it."

"Keep extra pain meds in the second drawer—he forgets where they are."

"Don’t let him work too late. He won’t notice how tired he is until it’s too much."

Page after page, her quiet efforts, her silent devotion.

And then, at the very end, a note written in shakier handwriting, as if she had been tired—so, so tired—but had needed to get the words down anyway.

"I’m sorry I never told you."

"I didn’t want our time to be about goodbyes."

"I wanted you to remember us as we were. Happy. Together."

"You always carried gloves for me. But I was the one trying to keep you warm all along."

His vision blurred. His breath came in uneven gasps as he pressed the notebook to his chest as if holding it close could bring her back, just for a moment.

He sank onto the bed, gripping the gloves in one hand, and the notebook in the other. He had spent so long lost in questions that no longer mattered.

But now, he had his answer.

She had always known him. She had always cared.

She had just wanted their love to be bigger than the goodbye.

And somehow, even in her absence, she had made sure he would never feel alone.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Then, with deliberate care, he picked up the notebook and turned to the very last page.

For a long time, he only stared at the blank space beneath her final words, his fingers tightening around the pen.

Then, he wrote.

"You never needed to say goodbye."

"I see you in everything."

"Thank you for keeping me warm."

He set the pen down, pressing his palm flat against the page as if sealing the words there forever. Then, with quiet reverence, he placed the notebook back onto the nightstand—right where she had left it.

Beside it, he laid the gloves.

Her gloves.

The ones he had carried for so long, always waiting for the chance to give them to her.

Now, finally, they were where they belonged.

He lightly brushed his fingers over the gloves one last time before reaching for the bedside lamp and turning it off, leaving the room bathed in soft darkness.

As he stepped outside, he hesitated only once before pulling the door closed behind him. The lock clicked into place—a quiet, final sound.

For the first time in a long time, the weight in his chest felt a little lighter.

And when he stepped out into the cold night air, for the first time—he didn’t reach for the gloves in his pocket.

Because they weren’t there anymore.

They didn’t need to be.