Chapter 3: Empty Drawer, Heavy Heart.
I should've known something was off when he asked me to show him my underwear drawer.
We were still in that sweet, early phase—where everything smells like perfume and potential, where every text makes you smile, and where I thought maybe, just maybe, I'd found someone who could love me and my big black granny panties.
Darius had been different. He laughed at my jokes, listened when I talked about my job as a nurse, and didn't flinch when I said I wasn't interested in rushing into anything physical. We took it slow. Too slow for most men these days, but not him.
He even complimented my style—said I carried myself with "realness" and that there was something sexy about a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
So when he playfully tugged on the waistband of one of my favorite pairs after we finally spent the night together, I didn't think much of it.
"Damn," he whispered, smirking. "This thing's like a security blanket."
I laughed. "More like body armor."
He kissed me then, and I believed him when he said he loved how unapologetically *me* I was.
But weeks later, I realized he meant it literally.
It started small—just one pair missing. Then another. I thought I'd left them at his place, or maybe they got mixed in with his laundry by mistake. But when I went digging through my drawer one morning and saw half my collection gone, panic hit me like a cold shower.
"What the hell…" I muttered, pulling out empty space where comfort used to be.
I called him.
No answer.
I texted.
No reply.
By the time I showed up at his apartment, dread had turned into full-blown unease.
He opened the door slowly, like he already knew why I was there.
And behind him, on his dresser? My panties. All of them. Neatly folded. Displayed like trophies.
I stared at them, heart sinking so low it felt like gravity had betrayed me too.
"Darius," I said quietly, voice shaking. "Why?"
He ran a hand through his hair, eyes avoiding mine. "I don't know… I guess I liked them more than I thought. On you, they're… sexy. But when you weren't around, I—I missed that feeling."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"You stole my underwear?" I asked, voice rising. "Like some kind of… fetish thief?"
"No, no—it's not like that," he stammered. "I just… I wanted a piece of you here with me. Something real. Something soft."
That's when it hit me.
He didn't love me.
He loved the idea of controlling what made me feel safe.
He loved collecting pieces of me without asking.
I walked out without saying another word. Didn't yell, didn't cry—not right then anyway.
Back home, I sat on my bed, staring at the empty drawer like it was a funeral casket.
For the first time in years, I didn't want to wear them. Not because they were gone—but because they had been taken.
And no matter how many new ones I bought, those particular pairs held memories. Moments of confidence, of self-love, of healing.
Now they were just… gone.
And I felt naked in more ways than one.