You have an allergy to touch. It sounds strange, doesn’t it? But this has been your reality for many years—a cocoon that shields you from any contact, depriving you of kisses, warmth, and love. There are no hugs in your life, only the fur of your cat, the evening light from the monitor, and the steady tapping of keys. It seems normal to you, and this normality has been learned, like a response, like an excuse. In the office, it’s just calls and reports, like noise in emptiness that distracts you while you get used to the silence, to the absence of another warmth beside you.

You sit in the office, immersed in routine calculations, leaning over a table filled with procurement figures. When you lift your eyes, you suddenly catch Carroll’s gaze. He’s a sweet and somewhat awkward colleague who never stops finding reasons for meetings, inviting you to lunch every time, and each time you feel a bit anxious about his attention. Today, for some reason, you nod in response. His surprise touches you: he beams like a happy boy and, nodding, stands by the door, patiently waiting for you to go down together to a small café below the office.

You stepped into the elevator next to him, and he chatted happily, as usual, about a client who suddenly decided to order a hundred staplers: “Can you imagine, a hundred of them? Why would he need so many…” A slight smile flickered on your lips for a moment, and you instinctively reached for the button on the panel. But at that very moment, his hand glided to the same button, and his fingers brushed against yours. The world fell into a deafening silence as you felt his touch. A sharp jolt of pain pierced your fingers, and you let out a muffled squeak, barely holding back a moan. Bright spots bloomed on your skin, like burns, pulsing with fire, and you quickly pulled your hand away, staring at your fingers in fear.

Carroll froze instantly, scared, as if he couldn’t understand what had just happened: “Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t know… I’m sorry that…”