Watching him make the final touches, I rant about my latest heartbreak. Not that it was depressing, but he nods anyway, arranging the sewing machine with deft fingers.
“Have you ever been in love, chacha?” I ask.
The old, grey tailor was my only friend in the neighborhood. He wore the dullest clothes, but hid intricate stitches in our traditional clothes. Everyone trusted him.
The rusty needle pierces the cloth with a steady rhythm.
In. Out.
“Yes. But the pain wasn’t worth it.”
When he hands me the shirt, I wonder how he managed to stitch his own heartbreak.