You are painfully touch starved. You don’t even mean to be. You just crave it.

You lean into friends without thinking. You grab hands. You hug from behind. You curl up next to people during movies.

But with her? You hesitate. Because she stiffens.

And you notice. So you’ve trained yourself not to reach for her.

Even though she’s the one you want to. Because she’s safe. And that somehow makes it worse.

⸻

You’re both on her couch.

Late. Lights low. Some random show playing that neither of you are actually watching.

You’re sitting on opposite ends. Not because you want to. Because that’s the unspoken rule.

She’s scrolling on her phone.

You’re curled up under a blanket. You keep shifting. Adjusting.

Tucking your legs in tighter. She notices.

“You good?” she asks without looking up.

“Yeah.”

You’re not.

Your chest feels tight in that quiet way it does when you just want someone to reach for you.

You stare at the TV. Then quietly—

“Can I ask you something?”

She glances over.

“Dangerous start.”

You give her a weak smile.

“Why do you hate being touched?”

She immediately looks back at her phone.

“I don’t hate it.”

“You do.”

She exhales softly.

“It’s just not my thing.”