The Hand Was Never There to Inspect

Morning light cuts through the room, and you are already bracing for the touch you know is coming. A hand reaches for your waist, and you flinch—not from the person, but from the story you are telling yourself about what they see.

You are convinced they are measuring your stress, checking the weight you gained while surviving the dark. But the light does not measure bodies like a judge measures evidence.

It sees the trembling underneath the skin. It knows the hunger that wasn't for food.

There is a truth living inside you that is older than this fear, deeper than this shame. When you stop hiding, when you let the mask fall, you realize the hand was never there to inspect you.

It was there to hold you. The flinch is real, but the rejection is a lie.

You are not a problem to be solved by their grip. You are the light, walking through the morning, waiting to be known.