She opened the door to his wardrobe and fumbled for the light switch. She found it nestling behind the sleeve of what felt like a real fur coat. The only thing he’d ever truly dreamed of was a walk-in wardrobe. The other boys would spend days and nights watching the football together and would cheer and leer and elbow and jostle. Meanwhile he’d sit alone, or sometimes with her, cross-legged on the floor, eating cheetos, gaze glued to the screen, the pixels washing his face with greens and pinks and blues, as a cosmo-clutching Carrie explored her sartorial Narnia. The warm fluorescent light of the closet grew brighter as it gained its courage. And she saw, on the racks, in all the coats and sweaters and shirts and tops and pants and leggings and sequins and shoes, all the different versions of him, in all the different combinations, folded away and hanging up on the rails, nestled side by side and on top of each other, like a catalogue of every angle of his soul. A wave of nostalgia and joy and grief flooded her, and all she wanted to do was sit down on the floor, cross-legged, in the middle of it all. And so she did, and she took the fur coat from its rack and cradled it, rubbing its soft arm across her face.