[ Love, my grown #02_ not all touches are equal]

I used to think I wasn’t a very touchy person. That I liked being alone. That physical affection wasn’t really my thing. When I was dating, I didn’t mind skipping hugs, or pulling away first. I thought I just preferred space. That it was my personality.

But looking back, I don’t think that was the whole story.

I’ve been with people who were charming. People who were confident, who knew what they were doing—even great in bed, by most standards. Some led, some followed, some read the room well. But even then, touch often felt like something we had to do. A step in the process. Something you do because you’re dating. And I just accepted that maybe I was someone who didn’t need much of it.

I thought I didn’t like touch, until someone showed me a different kind.

Then I met him.

The way he touches me isn’t loud. He hugs me when I come home and simply says, “You’re back.” We cuddle while eating ice cream. He rests his hand on my knee while we’re watching something. Nothing overthought. Nothing rehearsed.

His touch didn’t demand anything. It just stayed.

At first, it surprised me how calm I felt. Like my breath slowed. Like my body didn’t need to keep checking if it was safe. Like I didn’t have to perform being okay

I wasn’t changing—I was softening.

And slowly, I started to realize: I’m not someone who dislikes touch. I just hadn’t been touched in a way that felt good to me.

Some hands make you freeze up. Some make you soften without even noticing.

Maybe I haven’t changed that much. 

Maybe I just met someone who feels close to my frequency.

Maybe that’s all love really is—finding the person whose touch reminds you that you were never too much to hold.

[ Love, my grown. 25.06.19 ]