Close To You

It was said low, as if the words belonged to us alone, and my name felt different when it left the mouth that spoke it.

The air leaned in. So did I—not with my body, but somewhere quieter.

I know how to keep myself intact, how to stand where nothing asks for me, where wanting stays careful and contained.

Still, something in my chest eased open, slow, untrained, true.

If this is how hope moves—soft enough to miss, light enough to disappear— I won’t reach for it.

I’ll let it sit against my ribs, borrow my warmth, learn my breathing. And when it leaves—as all gentle things do—it will take nothing visible.

Only the part of me that finally believed it might stay.