Sometimes I stood in his old room, clutching that jacket, whispering into the silence. I told myself he could still hear me. And in those moments, I almost heard him answer: Wear it like you mean it, Chels.
That was when the idea came—not just to wear the uniform, but to transform it. To take what he left behind and make it mine.
For weeks, I stitched under a dim lamp, hiding scraps of fabric whenever footsteps echoed in the hallway. Once, Jen barged in, arms full of dresses, eyes already searching for something to mock. I covered everything just in time. She smirked, called me “Cinderella,” dumped more work on my bed, and left.
When the door clicked shut, I smiled. Stealth sewing, Dad would’ve called it.
Three nights before prom, I nearly gave up. The stitches weren’t perfect. My fingers ached. A drop of blood stained the inner seam. Maybe they were right. Maybe I didn’t belong.
But when I slipped the dress on, the mirror showed something else. Not the girl they ignored. Him. Me. Us. Something whole.
Prom night arrived loud and chaotic. Camila barked orders. Lia and Jen argued over makeup. No one asked about me. Upstairs, alone, I fastened the last button. His tie, now a sash, rested at my waist. The silver pin caught the light.
Their voices drifted up—mocking, guessing I’d show up in something cheap, something ridiculous. Something less.
I inhaled, opened the door, and walked down. Silence hit first. Then laughter.
