Where the City Ends and I Begin

Listen to me, little one; you do not owe the world an explanation for a quiet evening.
I set my bag down by the door and let the last of the city's hum dissolve against the glass. The blue curtain stills in a draft that smells of nothing but calm. I climb onto the leather sofa in my black lace, not for anyone's gaze, but because this is the hour I keep only for myself. My chin rests on my fists, and for once I do not reach for my phone.
He comes in softly, sensing the weight I carried today without me having to name it. He does not ask. He simply pours two cups of tea and sits close enough that his warmth presses against my side, his thumb tracing slow circles over my knee through the sheer stocking. In that small gesture lives everything I thought I had lost: the feeling of being seen, held, and never hurried.
So breathe with me now. Healing is not a grand rescue; it is this quiet room, this steady hand, this breath you finally take for yourself. You are enough, exactly as you sit here.

Editor: Willow