Chapter 4: Back to Square One (and a Whole Lot of Side-Eye)
I haven't gone on a date in seventy-three days.
Seventy-three long, quiet, emotionally exhausting days.
Since Darius and his weird underwear hoarding fetish, I've been doing what any sane, self-respecting woman would do after having her cotton soul stripped away:
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No swiping. No texting. No awkward dinner conversations where I have to explain why yes, I do like my panties high-waisted and no, that does not mean I'm secretly his therapist's patient.
I just… can't.
Because now, every time someone flirts with me—even in the most innocent way—I imagine them eyeing my waistband like it's the last slice of pizza at a party.
What if the next one isn't just a panty thief?
What if he's a collector ?
Like, "Oh hey baby, you got more of those? I got a shrine going under my bed."
Or worse—what if he's into role play and wants me to wear something else just to fulfill some fantasy involving lace, candles, and emotional manipulation?
Ugh.
I've become the kind of woman who flinches when a man compliments her style.
I used to strut with pride in my cotton confidence. Now I cross my legs tighter than a jar of pickles at a family reunion when someone leans in too close.
Wari says I'm being dramatic.
"Girl, you're acting like you were robbed by the Panty Bandit," she said over brunch last week, waving a forkful of waffles at me like it was a sermon.
"Honey," I replied, sipping my mimosa like it was holy water, "that's exactly what happened."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She knows I'm not wrong.
My drawer is full again now—new pairs, same style, same comfort. But it doesn't feel the same. Not really. It's like replacing your favorite pair of heels after they've been stolen. Same size, same color, but missing that invisible thread only time and love can weave.
And now, every time I catch a guy looking at me a little too long, I wonder:
Is he into me ?
Or is he already planning how to sneak into my drawer later?
I want to believe there's someone out there who won't judge me for my underwear choices. Someone who sees me—really sees me—and still wants to stay.
But right now, the thought of letting someone in again feels scarier than a mammogram and a tax audit combined.
So I'm taking it slow.
Real slow.
Like, "I'll think about texting him back in three years" kind of slow.
Because I don't need another broken heart or another empty drawer.
I just need someone who gets it.
Someone who looks at me and thinks, Damn, she owns herself.
Until then, I've got my big black granny panties.
And I'm not letting anyone take them again.
Not today.
Not ever.