I’ve always thought touch was its own language. A squeeze of the hand when you’re nervous, a bump of the shoulder to say, hey, I’m here. It’s how I connect with people—it’s instinct. Natural. Like breathing.

But with her, it wasn’t that simple.

We met during a sponsor shoot—she was on the photography crew, sharp-eyed, calm, quiet in a way that drew you in. We clicked fast. She was funny without trying to be, and had this way of making everything feel less heavy just by being around.

But early on, I noticed things. The way she shifted just slightly if someone touched her without warning. How hugs made her stiffen. How she always chose the seat with space on both sides.

So I kept my distance. Even when every part of me wanted to reach for her.

It wasn’t easy. I don’t do well with walls—especially when I care about someone. But with her, I was willing to wait. She let me in slowly, like opening a window just a crack to see if the air was warm enough to trust.

And now we were here—my apartment, lights low, city buzzing outside the windows. She was curled up on the other side of the couch, legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. We'd been talking for hours, laughter breaking through the soft music playing in the background.

“I know you don’t like touch,” I said, careful with my words, my tone. “But… can I show you something?”

She turned her head slowly, her eyes meeting mine. Curious. Cautious.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

I shifted, just enough to sit facing her a bit more. Then I held out my hand—palm up, resting on the couch cushion between us. No pressure. Just… there.

Her gaze dropped to it. She didn’t move for a long moment. And then, like she was testing the water, she let her fingers brush against mine. Barely touching. Featherlight.

I didn’t move. Didn’t close the space.

Her fingertips stayed. And I swear my heart stopped.

“See?” I said gently, voice barely above a whisper. “Some things aren’t here to hurt you. Some things just want to stay soft.”