The Live-in Closet

At first, it was practical. A pile of dry-cleaning on the bed, a broken AC unit, and a closet that was bigger than her kitchen. She brought in a pillow, then a candle, then the Versace ashtray she never used. One night turned into a week. A week turned into a tax write-off.

She told friends she was “reclaiming space,” like a startup founder with a mental health deck. Really, she just felt more herself between the velvet hangers and the scent of cedar and Guerlain. The outside world had become too ambiguous. In here, everything had a label.

Her wardrobe became architecture. The puffer coats muffled the sound of existential dread. The Margiela blazer offered a shoulder to cry on. She started talking to her loafers. They listened.

She journaled between the Comme des Garçons and the Saint Laurent. She conducted imaginary interviews about her “lifestyle pivot” for niche magazines that didn’t exist. When asked what she did, she replied, “I live conceptually.”

Eventually, she stopped going out entirely. Everything she needed was in the closet: identity, protection, options. A rotating cast of selves. Outside was chaos. Inside was curation.

And the closet rewarded her devotion. Zippers hummed like lullabies, sequins blinked like constellations. The more she stayed, the larger it became—hallways of satin, corridors of wool, mirrors that multiplied her endlessly. By the time her friends came looking, the apartment was empty. The closet had taken her back.