But it felt like she was there with us—in the fabric, in the careful way Ethan handled every piece.
By the time he finished, the dress was incredible.
It was fitted at the waist and flowed out at the bottom with panels of different denim shades. He used old seams, pockets, and faded sections in ways that somehow looked intentional and stylish.
I touched the fabric and whispered, “You made this.”
The next morning Melissa saw it hanging on my door.
She stopped, stared at it, then walked closer.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“What?” I said.
“That thing.”
“It’s my prom dress.”
She burst out laughing.
“That patchwork disaster?”
Ethan came out of his room immediately.
Melissa looked between us. “You’re actually serious?”
