I would like to describe a consideration, if one could even feel comfortable calling it that. Perhaps a perspective is a more fair way of writing its name (although admittedly, even this I am unsure of.) It came to me as you were hastening to pack your luggage away for your flight from Japan to Korea. You briefly showed me an image of the graying hoodie that I gave to you, folded neatly and cordially in your luggage. You asked me if this hoodie was of any importance to me, to which I responded with something along the lines of it being relatively insignificant to me, and that it was yours to keep. For this statement, I would like to sincerely apologize to you, for I have misled you and your understanding of what this article of clothing means to me.
It is untrue that the hoodie is of an unimportant feeling to me, and the degree to which this statement is untrue is severe. See, that hoodie is—without a moment of doubt or hesitation in my mind—the most important article of clothing in my entire wardrobe, perhaps in my entire possession. It is something I have carried since I was a child when my dad first slipped it upon my body: at that moment it was much too large to wear upon my shoulders to the point that it would drape down to my knees. I have grown into it just as much as I have grown up with it. Sewn into the collar are the tears I have shed at my lowest; the cuffs are wrinkled from fists that waved wildly into the air at my highest. I have spent my years in that hoodie. It has seen every part of me; it is a part of me. I speak of such a simple article of clothing perhaps melodramatically, but understand that I cannot even begin to describe in these paltry words just how much it means to me.
At this point I suppose you may wonder why such an important shell of my body is no longer in my possession, but rather packed sweetly and quietly in your luggage. With that, I answer with the consideration I would like to describe: when I say I come from a family of magic I say it in jest, a gamble to hear that sweet laugh of yours, but recently I am beginning to believe it myself. I miss you dearly. I miss you in a way that I haven't missed before. But by some strange magic I can close my eyes and feel you with me here. I can feel you sitting beside me as I write this letter to the true you that is so far away from me now. As I take quiet steps through this dusty house, I can feel that you are here too, and it feels so powerfully real: watching me and speaking to me and holding my hand to your heart. It is an intense magic. I know it is foolish to believe such a thing, but for a second it makes the distance feel a little less far. Perhaps I am imagining a near future, or perhaps there really is sorcery sprouting from the tips of my fingers.
Whenever I am able to conjure you in this way, I wonder if you are able to do the same in your hotel rooms. It worries me to think I may not be there for you in the same way you are here for me. But then I consider the image of my hoodie, napping there lazily and happily, and I realize that I never really left you. You carry with you a piece of me, a part of me, an extension of my heart and a reflection of my spirit. It's walking with you now, talking with you now, holding you in its arms as we both go to sleep, and such a thought makes me wonderfully happy. Perhaps I told a sliver of truth when my hoodie appeared in our call. When I said you could keep the hoodie in your possession, I meant every word of it. The hoodie is me, and just as the hoodie is yours to keep, so am I.