The world ended, but my skin remembers. It remembers the brush of cashmere, the scrape of denim, the cold kiss of a zipper against the small of my back. It remembers the heat of stage lights and the chill of a stranger's gaze. Now, the only thing that touches it is grit and stale air and the occasional, desperate press of another body for warmth.

We’ve started a new ritual. We call it ‘Dressing.’ We sit in a circle and describe, in excruciating detail, the last outfit we wore before the collapse. Not just the clothes—the feel of them.

Lily went first. A vintage slip dress. Silk so thin it was like water. She described the way the straps slid off her shoulders, how the hem brushed the tops of her thighs. She said she wasn’t wearing panties. She said she could feel every draft, and she loved it. By the end, her voice was a whisper, her hand cupping her breast through her filthy tank top like she was trying to feel the silk that wasn’t there.

Scarlet described leather pants. Tight, restrictive, smelling of newness and power. She talked about the sound they made when she walked—a soft, commanding creak. She said she felt invincible in them, like she could take on a room of wolves. Now, she runs her hands over her own legs, her nails digging in, trying to recreate the pressure.

My turn. I didn’t describe an outfit. I described underwear. A lace thong, black, so flimsy it was more suggestion than fabric. The way it vanished between my ass cheeks, a constant, teasing reminder. The matching bra that pushed my tits up and left them half-exposed. I wasn’t wearing it for anyone else. I was wearing it for the man I was meeting later. A man who promised to rip it off with his teeth. I described the anticipation of that moment—the certain knowledge that this delicate, expensive thing was about to be destroyed for his pleasure. The thrill of being so deliberately, so beautifully, prepared to be ruined.

Isabell didn’t describe clothes at all. She described jewelry. A collar. Not a metaphorical one. A real, black leather collar with a silver O-ring. She described the weight of it, the coolness against her throat, the way it felt when someone pulled on the ring to guide her. She said she never took it off, even in the shower. She said it was the truest thing she ever wore.

Lillian just listened. She didn’t share. She just watched us unravel ourselves with memory, her eyes dark and hungry. She’s collecting our vulnerabilities, stitching them into a new uniform for us to wear. One made of shared, aching want.

We’re not wearing clothes anymore. We’re wearing ghosts. And I’d trade my last breath to feel real fabric—or real hands—tear them off me again.

What’s the one article of clothing your skin misses the most? And what did it promise you?