Ten Days

August 13th.

I try not to do it. I try to breathe normally, but it comes out on a weird hiccup that no one outwardly questions but I get many eye-sliding-to-the-slot stares from two of my keenly aware coworkers. My heart soothes, my shoulders relax, my smile widens. You do nothing to upset my nervous system and yet I am more drawn to you than I think I’ve ever been anyone. I’m attracted to things I fear, things that are toxic and dangerous for me. That will do nothing but hurt me. And yet for all I’ve heard, all your pushing and prodding at my boundaries, you never cross them beyond my comfort. You never harden. You tense when I push a bruise a little too hard, but you don’t bat me away. You’re soft. You’re kind. You’re so very good. And for the amount of people who try to convince me otherwise, you prove to be gentler, sweeter, better.

August 23rd.

Every inch of my skin that you touched when you hugged me remembers. I can’t recall most of anything, but the one and only hug, the hug goodbye, I feel like it’s tattooed into my skin. With a vibrating recognition that shocks me into feeling something I feel subconsciously regardless.

I remember your arms at a crooked angle, unsure and nervous, just like your eyes and the tilt of your mouth almost into a pout— question and want— as you walked up to me. You were trying for confidence, and I was trying not to burst into flames from the anxiety. I knew what was a friendly hug. It was that same weird combination you haltingly offered: the arm slightly above for the shoulder hook and the loose bottom arm for the waist. Barely there as a touch. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.

I wrapped both arms around your waist and refrained from squeezing, from inhaling your scent like it was my last breath. Because I remembered the moment you brushed past me, and the moment a day before you let your hair loose from its clip to show off your haircut. I remember the smell like a gunshot to the chest.

I remember how you felt. The exact measurement against me, around me. In the way I’d calculate the perfect blanket wrap about for the next night. I felt my shoulders settle. My heart settle. My nervous system didn’t react.

Until you left. And I hid the biting tears with a glare at my phone screen like there was anything more important than watching you walk away until I couldn’t see you anymore. You didn’t look back. I try not to think about that, and think about your warmth and gentle adjustment to hold me around the neck like it was natural. And I try not to let that rule me.

But like every other tiny moment of ours, I can’t help letting it live