Can we touch hands? Just for a little while longer—can we? I don’t need you to hold me anywhere else, just my hand. Or maybe not even that—just let your hand linger close to mine, close enough that I can feel you’re still here. Close enough to sense your presence, but far enough to remind me you’re going to leave.
How selfish am I, wanting to hold your hand a moment longer after I was the one who broke the hug you gave me? Am I so lost in myself that I can’t let go, even when everyone else is intrusively pulling me away by my other arm? Is it wrong of me to hope you’ll hold on tighter, to feel a spark of joy when you do, even as the tug of the world grows stronger?
Is this longing? Or something more cruel—masochism, perhaps?
Please, let my hand go, gently, if you must. But promise me, once in a while, reach for it again. Don’t forget the feel of my hand against yours, as I will never forget the roughness of your palm, the warmth of our fingers entwined. I’ll remember every squeeze, every quiet pressure that whispered I love you.
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