The bus brakes hard. You feel it in your teeth. A lurch, a stop. The air inside the vehicle smells of wet wool and stale coffee. You are sitting in the back row. You are not wearing your coat. It is not in your lap. It is not on the seat beside you. It is gone.

You know where it is. You have always known where it is.

The man in front of you is reading a newspaper. The paper is damp. The ink blurs where rain has touched it. He does not look up. He does not know that you are wearing his skin. He does not know that the coat is you.

You close your eyes. The vibration of the engine hums through the floor. It is a low, grinding sound. Like a bone being pulled from a joint. You remember the first time. It was a Tuesday. The rain was cold. You bought the coat at a thrift shop. It was gray. It smelled of smoke and old sweat. You put it on. It fit. It fit too well. It felt like a hug. It felt like a hold.

You walked out into the street. The world was sharp. The colors were too bright. You looked at your hands. They were not your hands. They were the hands of the man who had worn the coat before you. You looked at the mirror in the shop window. The face was yours. But the eyes were wrong. They were tired. They were old. They were the eyes of a man who had died in a war.

You took the coat off. You left it in the shop. You ran. You ran until your lungs burned. You ran until the city swallowed you.

But the coat was not gone. The coat was in you.

Years passed. You learned to live with it. You learned to ignore the whispers. You learned to ignore the cold. You worked in the office. You filed papers. You answered phones. You were no one. You were a ghost in a body that did not belong to you.

Then you met him.

His name was Julian. He was a teacher. He had soft hands. He had kind eyes. He did not know about the coat. He did not know about the war. He loved you. He loved you with a fierce, blind passion. He held you at night. He whispered your name. He did not know that he was holding a vessel. He did not know that the love he gave was being absorbed.

You loved him too. It was a primal thing. It was not logical. It was hunger. It was the need to be filled. To be whole. You wore his scent. You wore his touch. You became him.

The betrayal was not a shout. It was a silence.

You found the letter. It was on your desk. It was from his mother. It was addressed to Julian. It said that he had been in a war. It said that he had lost his memory. It said that he had died. It said that the body found in the field was not his. It said that the coat had been recovered. It said that the coat was empty.

You read the letter. You read it again. You read it until the words lost their meaning. You looked at your hands. They were his hands. You looked in the mirror. The face was his face.

You had not been wearing his coat. You had been becoming him.

The cycle turned. The wheel spun. You were caught in it. You could not stop. You could not let go. You were the coat. You were the ghost. You were the memory.

You went to the office. You sat at your desk. You picked up the phone. You dialed Julian’s number. It rang. It rang. It rang. You hung up. You dialed again. It rang. It rang. It rang.

You went to the park. It was raining. The rain was cold. You walked to the bench. You sat down. The wet soaked through your clothes. You felt the cold. You felt the weight. You felt the presence.

Julian sat next to you.

He was not Julian. He was the man from the war. He was the man in the field. He was the one who had died. He was wearing your coat.

He looked at you. His eyes were tired. His eyes were old.

"You are here," he said.

"I am here," you said.

"You have my coat," he said.

"I have your life," you said.

He reached out. He took your hand. His hand was cold. His hand was strong.

"We are stuck," he said.

"We are stuck," you said.

The rain fell. The rain fell. The rain washed the ground. The rain washed the memory.

You stood up. You took the coat off. You held it in your hands. It was light. It was empty. You threw it into the mud.

You felt a tear. A crack. A fracture.

The coat shattered.

It did not break into pieces. It broke into dust. It broke into air. It broke into nothing.

You felt the cold. You felt the weight. You felt the presence. It was gone.

You looked at Julian. He was gone. He was just a man. He was just a teacher. He was just alive.

He looked at you. He saw you. He saw the face. He saw the eyes. They were your eyes. They were young. They were yours.

He reached out. He touched your face.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am me," you said.

He smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile.

"Come home," he said.

You walked away. You walked into the rain. You did not look back. You did not look at the mud. You did not look at the dust.

You were free.

You were alone.

The bus came. The bus stopped. You got on. You sat in the back row. You wore a gray coat. It was new. It was clean. It smelled of nothing.

The man in front of you was reading a newspaper. The paper was dry. The ink was sharp. He did not look up.

You closed your eyes. The vibration of the engine hummed through the floor. It was a low, grinding sound. Like a bone being pulled from a joint.

You remembered the first time. It was a Tuesday. The rain was cold. You bought the coat at a thrift shop. It was gray. It smelled of smoke and old sweat.

You put it on.

It fit.

It fit too well.

You walked out into the street. The world was sharp. The colors were too bright. You looked at your hands. They were not your hands.

You ran.

You ran until your lungs burned.

You ran until the city swallowed you.

But the coat was not gone.

The coat was in you.

You are sitting in the back row. You are wearing the coat. It is not in your lap. It is not on the seat beside you.

It is you.

The bus brakes hard. You feel it in your teeth. A lurch, a stop. The air inside the vehicle smells of wet wool and stale coffee.

You are no one.

You are a ghost.

You are the coat.

The wheel spins.

The cycle turns.

You cannot escape.

You are here.

You are always here.

The rain falls.

The rain washes.

The rain forgets.

You do not forget.

You are the memory.

You are the weight.

You are the cold.

You are the presence.

You are the ghost.

You are the coat.

You are the man in the field.

You are the teacher.

You are the woman in the back row.

You are the one who remembers.

You are the one who is stuck.

The bus moves.

The bus stops.

The bus moves.

The bus stops.

You stay.

You stay.

You stay.

The coat is heavy.

The coat is cold.

The coat is you.

You do not take it off.

You do not take it off.

You do not take it off.

The end is not an end.

The end is a beginning.

The end is a loop.

The end is a circle.

You are in the circle.

You are in the loop.

You are in the end.

You are in the beginning.

You are in the middle.

You are in the center.

You are in the heart.

You are in the soul.

You are in the bone.

You are in the blood.

You are in the breath.

You are in the air.

You are in the rain.

You are in the dust.

You are in the nothing.

You are in the something.

You are in the everything.

You are in the nothing.

The bus brakes hard.

You feel it in your teeth.

A lurch, a stop.

The air smells of wet wool.

The air smells of stale coffee.

You are sitting in the back row.

You are wearing the coat.

It is gone.

It is here.

It is you.