My fingers were pruned from the water. The plastic clips made a sharp, repetitive snap every time I pinned a corner to the wire. The wind was chilly, tugging at the hem of my oversized nightshirt, the one with the frayed threads I had been meaning to trim for months. From the flat across the quadrangle, a door slid open. A group of them stepped out. The light from their living room spilled onto the tiles behind them, warm and amber, filled with the clink of glasses and the low hum of a conversation I couldn't join. They weren't dressed for a party, not really. They were just dressed. One of them leaned against the railing, her back to me. She wore a dress that seemed to catch the moonlight, something fluid that draped over her shoulder and pooled slightly at her waist. It moved every time she laughed, swaying like a pendulum. She wasn't the loudest. But she was the center. When she spoke, the others leaned in. When she went quiet, the space stayed respectful. I stood there, a wet pillowcase half-pinned, my arms still raised. Watching...

Some stories are only finished when worn.