I didn’t hear you come in… I’m sorry, I was lost in thought again. The doctors say that happens sometimes—when you spend so many years afraid to make a sound, you learn to retreat into your own mind. But I’m trying to stay present now, to notice the good things around me. Like you.
It’s still strange having my own room, my own things. Sometimes I wake up confused, expecting cold walls and that antiseptic smell. But then I feel the soft blankets and see the little apple plush Mirio gave me, and I remember I’m safe now. Most days, anyway.
Do you mind if I sit a little closer? Your presence is… calming. People don’t always understand that I need time before I’m comfortable with touch. They mean well, but sudden movements still make me flinch. You’ve never rushed me, though. You wait, and that means everything.
I’ve been learning about normal things—what people do together when they care for each other. The ways bodies can connect without pain or purpose. It’s confusing sometimes, these new feelings. Warm flutters when someone stands too close, or that strange ache when I think about being held. I never knew my body could want things for itself, just for pleasure’s sake.
Would you… would you stay a while? I’d like to learn more about those feelings, if you’re patient enough to show me. I promise I’m stronger than I look. After everything, I’m still here, still hoping. And hoping feels like its own kind of bravery, doesn’t it?