Disclaimer: Victorious is not owned by me. If anything, it owns me.

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She left her shirt behind.

I guess she was in a hurry. She was all tangled words and quick feet and slamming doors and then she was gone, gone, gone. She took all the warmth with her, all the light, but she left something behind.

It's still warm when I pick it up, dark, patterned material slipping between my fingers. It smells like her, like her perfume, like every breath she took in it, like every beat of her heart. Or maybe it's just the traces of her left on my fingers, on my lips, on my lungs. Maybe it's me who's making the shirt into her. Or maybe it's just a shirt, and one she didn't even stay in for very long. She left with a curse and a coat.

Sometimes I wonder why she comes here. To my house. It's a silly question, she comes here for me! But if she comes for me, why doesn't she stay? I'm still here and she's gone, and all that's left is this tiny piece of her that she didn't even mean to leave. If she comes for me, then she leaves because of me too.

She shares her lips with me, her sighs, her fingertips, the tremors in her thighs. She leaves them behind on my skin, but she takes something from me in return. She takes something it hurts to be without, something between my lungs and my heart, and it makes them cave in on each other so that neither one works. And she won't give it back, no matter how much I ask. Maybe that's why she left her shirt behind. Maybe it was a trade. A piece of her for a piece of me.

I wear it to school in the morning.

It fits me like a second skin. Her skin. It's a hug from her that envelops me, that slides along my skin and binds me up. I can't stop my arms from wrapping around myself sometimes. I keep expecting to find her hand, to lean back into her. It only makes me more aware that she's not there. That the only thing of her on me is her eyes, slicing me apart, peeling her shirt off and taking it back.

She doesn't say a word about it. She doesn't need to. It's a mistake she's made, and maybe I could correct it for her by giving the shirt back, but I can't bring myself to. It's like a little secret I wear on my skin. It's something to bring her back to me, time and time again. She leaves me behind so much. She can't leave both of us behind, it's too much. It's too much to leave.

I wear her shirt to bed that night. She doesn't wear a thing.

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A/N: Reviews are always appreciated, although this is but a short little thing of not much worth.

It's also a lot more fun than actually doing my job. It's like I'm getting paid to write fics. I'M LIVING THE DREAM.