I arrived like a question
half-swallowed,
wearing silence like a shield.
Everything I touched,
I expected to break.
Everything I said,
I rehearsed in apology.
There was a time
I only spoke in exits—
built doors out of distance,
named it safety.
But some kind of warmth
stood still
when I backed away.
Not a fire,
not a blaze,
just something that stayed lit
even when I dimmed.
It didn’t ask me to be brave.
Didn’t beg me to be soft.
It waited,
quiet as the moment
before the truth
is finally told.
And maybe I was still trembling.
Maybe I still counted
every heartbeat
like a warning.
But something in the way
it never left
taught me
how to stay.