My fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie as I nuzzle into your neck-
soft, instinctive, unfamiliar in the way safety still sometimes feels.
For a moment, I notice what my body does without asking permission as it relaxes.
I haven’t felt that kind of ease in years.
Not since the day my dad stopped being home and became memory instead.
Grief didn’t just take him-
it rearranged everything I thought comfort was supposed to feel like.
People told me to move on;
To be grateful for what hurt too much to name out loud or to stop missing someone I was never supposed to miss like this.
Liquor didn’t fix it.
Taylor Swift vinyls didn’t rebuild what collapsed inside me and-
No amount of time erased the way his loss settled into my body.
But you arrived differently.
You were steady, quiet check-ins.
Simple presence.
Words that didn’t demand I justify my grief before I was allowed to feel it and-
without announcing itself, something in me softened again.
At some point without noticing I stopped bracing for impact,
My shoulders dropping into you without permission and my hands gripping fabric like it’s safe to let go for a second.
It took a while for me to realize that this is the first time I’ve felt something new without fear sitting on top of it.
