Sunday Short: Worn Once, Still Fresh

Nobody talks about Azim anymore.

At least not out loud.

The students who knew him whispered theories: he’d joined a cult, ran off to Thailand, or suffered a nervous breakdown. His roommate, Jefri, said Azim just “walked out one night and never came back.”

But that’s not true.

Azim did come back.

Just… not as himself.

The CCTV footage from the construction site near their flat was grainy, but there was one clear frame: Azim standing in the middle of a burned patch of gravel, his eyes glowing faintly under the dim light. He wasn’t moving.

The pants were still on him.

When authorities found the site, there was no body—only ashes, melted glass, and a full outfit folded neatly on a broken plastic chair: olive corduroy pants, a faded Maroon 5 T-shirt, and white sneakers stained reddish brown near the soles.

Everything smelled of smoke and something off—like rusted metal left out in rain.

The police logged it under "unclaimed lost property."

Within two weeks, the outfit appeared—tagged and priced—in a secondhand bin at a thrift market in Sri Petaling. No one remembered donating it. No one could say how it got there.

And yet... there it was.

On a sleepy Tuesday, a college couple browsing for Halloween costumes stumbled on the set.

“Bro, vintage vibes,” one of them said, holding up the pants. “Gila retro.”

“RM8 je?” the other replied. “Cheap siot.”

They bought the entire outfit.

That night, the guy—Hakim—tried the pants on.

They fit perfectly.

Too perfectly.

His girlfriend laughed at how he suddenly looked different in them. Sharper. Taller. Even his posture shifted, like someone else was wearing him from the inside.

She thought he was joking when he started mumbling in his sleep.

She didn’t laugh the next morning, when he stared into the mirror and whispered,

"This time… I’ll get it right."

Across the city, Jefri—the roommate—woke up choking.

He hadn’t thought about Azim in months.

But the last words Azim had ever said to him came flooding back in a voice that wasn’t his own:

"You think I chose the pants?"

Now, in that dimly lit thrift stall under the flyover, there’s a growing section marked “NEW ARRIVALS – VINTAGE FINDS.”

T-shirts.

Shoes.

Belts.

And a pair of olive green corduroys.

They’re always the last item left at the end of the day.

Never sold.

But every night, the stall owner finds them folded. Waiting.

Almost like they’re choosing.

Be careful what you wear. Some clothes are looking for more than just a fit.