I lie stiff as a board, keeping distance, like she’s made of glass.
It lasts five seconds.
Then she moves.
Without waking—
without hesitating—
she rests her head on my chest.
An arm across my stomach.
A leg over mine.
And I forget how to breathe.
Every muscle in my body locks.
Half of me screams not to move.
The other half screams to pull her closer.
I do neither.
My arm hovers uselessly a few inches away.
Because if I touch her—
even with one finger—
I won’t survive it.
She sighs against me—a soft, tiny sound—
and it wrecks me, and heals me, all at once.
I stare at the ceiling in the dark.
I listen to her breathing.
Her heartbeat.
Her warmth pressed against me.
And then comes the worst part:
I’ve never slept next to anyone.
Ever.
I can’t.
I don’t.
I don’t trust.
I don’t let go.
