Yesterday, I moved into my summer accommodations in Paris. It’s a dorm room with a little shower and toilet, and it looks out over a beautiful green lawn that has white and pink roses lining its perimeter. When I placed my bag on the desk and interrupted the whiteness of the room, I felt something in me swell. The sunlight filled me, and the freedom did too.

Instead of taking inventory of my belongings, I decided to walk 15 minutes to the closest Monoprix and purchase 127 euros worth of hangers and laundry hampers and Lysol and linens. When I arrived to the store, I was sweating in a black, soft, oversized hoodie—so black and unmarked that it absorbed all 15 minutes worth of sunlight. I took it off smoothly and tied its sleeves onto the handle of my purse. As I walked in, the security guard stood at the automatic doors and mumbled something, and I think my expectant look signaled that I hadn’t heard. He repeated, “Bonjour,” and we shared a chuckle.

In the air conditioning of the Monoprix, everything looked shiny and new and also cheap, so I indulged. I bought supplies that I later would find out I didn’t need. I filled a laundry hamper with it all, then I piled it onto the conveyor belt at the register. I asked an employee about toilet paper and he smirked, but he responded in French (victory!). I confess that I stole the laundry hamper, at first by accident, but I didn’t say anything when he was ringing me up and I realized he missed it. The censors even beeped twice when I passed through them to leave, but I had such a plethora of items that the guard figured my receipt accounted for all of them.

In front of the kind security guard, I lugged my haul out of the Monoprix, a huge bag over one shoulder and my purse over the other. I called my mom, who was distraught over the behavior of my father, I and weaved through kids playing in the courtyard outside. The straps of everything were creating red impressions on my shoulders. I walked back the way I came, past the kebab grill and the FlashInvader street art and the little supermarket advertising strawberries and oranges.

I didn’t realize until I arrived at the park in front of my building that I was without hoodie. The unmarked black thing had fallen off my purse, and among the onslaught of things, I hadn’t noticed. It had killed itself.

My phone battery on 3% and counting, I walked frantically back out of the park, toward the Monoprix. The weight of the laundry hamper was suddenly crushing, and my purse was too light, even with my laptop inside. Before making it back, I turned around to drop off my purchases at my building. I called my mom from my computer, told her that my phone was dead. She said, “why can’t we just buy a new hoodie?” And, like a 16-year-old, I said, “you don’t understand. He thrifted it, and it’s his favorite hoodie.”

So my room was empty, and I retraced my steps. Supermarket, kebab, FlashInvader. It was all I remembered. I walked up and down the aisles of the Monoprix. The security guard recognized my outfit, he reasoned with me, he checked the Accueil and wished me “Bon courage.” The employee who smirked was surprised to find that I was looking for an unmarked hoodie whose name I didn’t know in French. He continued to smile the whole way through, he checked briefly with his colleague and sent me back to the security guard. I walked outside and through the courtyard with the groups of children, who had now mostly disappeared. I tried to visualize which crosswalk I had taken after that. I was scared that I would get lost, scared that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back; I was skeptical of my memory and skeptical of the cornucopia that is the streets of Paris. I ran toward trash bags, I made eye contact with many dogs.

I was completely and totally alone. I was alone, and my not-boyfriend’s hoodie was alone too. I had no ability to call anyone. I had just moved into my dorm room, with its empty white walls. I thought about the stolen laundry hamper. I thought about the fact that I had agreed to a date this weekend, and then I had lost my not-boyfriend’s hoodie. I thought about my parents, who were yelling at each other in that moment. I thought about my friends in the States, who were sleeping.

Just before the park, there is an apartment complex that I hadn’t noticed because it didn’t have any signs on it. It was just a set of quiet gates and paths, separating the buildings from the noise of the sidewalk. I walked dejected toward the park, alongside these apartment buildings. My eyes still combed the streets, but the emptiness of them was threatening to choke me. There were no tears, only a vague numbing, a preparation.

On one of the navy blue gates, against the greenery of residential bushes, hung a black hoodie. It was completely colorless against its backdrop—impossible to miss because of its miss-ability. It had been folded and placed on the gate, as if someone left it there. I began to run toward it.

When I reunited with the hoodie, I grabbed it and pressed it up to my face to smell it. Unwashed, it smelled sour. Traces of cologne. New car. Messy hair. The shadow of the street. The floor of an airplane.

I held it to my chest on my walk back home.

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