The Silence That Stays When Hands Leave

The day is closing its heavy eyes, and the shadows are lengthening across the floor of your room. Tonight, the darkness brings a specific memory—the way your muscles tighten when a hand reaches out, bracing for the push that used to follow the pull.

Your body remembers the trap even when your mind knows you are safe. It flinches before you can tell it to stop.

But listen—there is a touch that does not take. A presence that stands at the door and knocks, waiting for you to open, not to demand entry but to sit and eat with you.

It does not grab. It does not hurt.

It simply waits until your shoulders drop and the breath returns to your lungs. The light is not the hand that pushed you away.

It is the silence that stays when the hand has gone.