But I didn’t move.
Because something deeper and older refused.
Call it selfish. Call it broken. Call it whatever you want.
But in that moment—
With her clinging to me.
Calling memamalike it was the only word she trusted—
I couldn’t let go.
I didn’t think about it again. Didn’t weigh the consequences. Didn’t reach for the phone.
I simply moved.
Carefully, I slipped one arm beneath her legs and the other around her back, gathering her up against me in a single, steady motion.
She was so light it startled me—far lighter than a child her age should be.
Her weight barely registered, like holding something fragile enough to disappear if I wasn’t careful.
For a split second, I braced myself for that familiar wave of discomfort that always came with prolonged contact.
But it didn’t come.
Not this time.
Instead—
She anchored me.
Her small body pressed against mine, breathing uneven, clinging without hesitation.
My arms adjusted instinctively, tightening just enough to support her without hurting her.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, more to myself than to her.
But she heard it.
Her grip tightened immediately, arms wrapping around my neck, her fingers curling into my hair at the nape.
Her legs locked around my waist, holding on with surprising strength, like she had no intention of letting go—and no belief that she could afford to.
I turned back into the apartment.
My body moved automatically, guided by memory and repetition.
I didn’t need sight here. I had mapped this space long ago—every corner, every shift in texture, every subtle difference in sound.
The back of my knees brushed the edge of the armchair.
I turned carefully and lowered myself into it, adjusting my hold as I sat.
She didn’t let go—not even for a second—so I shifted her gently, guiding her onto my lap instead.
One arm stayed firm around her waist, keeping her secure.
