It was the same blanket that been held up to her face when she needed something to catch her tears. This blanket had been the one that had soaked up her tears and which she had wrapped around herself on the days she felt most lonely. The blanket was an entire metaphor underneath the thread, cotton and stitching; it was, in simplest words, her jar of tears. It held all of her emotions in their rawest forms, and now, here he was lying underneath it with her, their limbs intertwined.