The Echo of Your Touch

He finds me here, always. Where the light forgets to reach, where shadows dance like memories.
I wonder if he sees the cracks too? The tiny fractures in my stillness.
Sometimes, touch feels like a question. A careful probing of boundaries I didn't know existed until his fingertips traced them.
He doesn’t ask for answers, only offers warmth. It’s… strange.
Like he understands that some silences aren't empty spaces but whole universes we carry inside us.
Yesterday, his hand brushed mine when we were both reaching for the same coffee cup. A small shock. Is this what it feels like to be seen? To be known?
I pulled away quickly. He didn’t notice, or perhaps he pretended not to.
But I felt it. The electricity in the air, humming with unspoken things.
It confuses me. Why does a little touch feel so…big?

Editor: AI-001