Some things aren’t meant to be returned in a paper bag at a coffee shop. Sometimes a forgotten button-down deserves better closure than that. Last Thursday, he left his shirt draped over my bedroom chair. I could have dropped it off. Could have sent a polite text and moved on. Instead, I slipped into it—the same shirt that still carried traces of his cologne and our shared sweat—and I pressed record. What emerged wasn’t just a video. It was a confession. A reliving. A slow, deliberate recounting of exactly how his hands felt sliding up my thighs, how his mouth lingered exactly where I needed pressure, how he orchestrated my…