Sometimes intimacy doesn’t arrive with a confession or a touch. It comes as a quiet offering — a glimpse of someone’s private thought, a pause long enough to reveal the outline of their tenderness. In that instant, the air feels thinner, charged with the risk of being seen.
I sensed it then: he wasn’t asking for an answer but showing me something of himself. And I — startled by the closeness — turned slightly, just enough to soften the light. I offered reassurance instead of matching the vulnerability, not out of rejection, but self-preservation.
Perhaps that’s how early intimacy often works: two people tracing the edges of honesty, learning to breathe in the open without burning. My words may have circled the truth, but they stayed near it — a kind of courage in translation, a way of saying “I see you” without yet saying “I feel the same.”
WE&P by: EZorrillaMc.
Travel in Life 
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