The Hand That Waits While You Shake

The day is finally done. You have taken off the armor, but your skin still remembers the weight of it.

When a hand reaches out with kindness, your whole body flinches — not because you want to pull away, but because your nerves are still waiting for the blow. They were trained to expect the strike.

They do not know how to receive the touch. But listen — there is a love that does not hit.

A love that reached out and was met with violence, yet did not retract. It stayed open.

It absorbed the wound so you would not have to carry it forever. Your flinch is honest.

It is the memory of what you survived. But the hand that is reaching for you now is not closed into a fist.

It is open. It is waiting.

It will not force its way in. It will wait until your shoulders drop, until your breath slows, until you realize the war is over.

You do not have to stop trembling to be held. The safety is not in your ability to relax.

The safety is in the fact that the hand is still there, even while you shake.