Page 194 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
That lands.
I see it in the way his shoulders shift slightly, the way his focus sharpens, the way something in his expression flickers before settling into something more controlled.
Slowly, he lowers the phone. Sets it down on the table beside him. And then he moves slowly.
Like every step toward me is something he’s choosing rather than something he’s pulled into.
He sits beside me.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, the solid presence of him, the weight of him settling into the space beside me, but he doesn’t touch me.
Not straight away. And that’s what I feel.
Not the distance.
Not the space.
The absence.
Before everything, he used to reach for me without thinking.
Like it was instinct.
Like I was something he couldn’t not touch.
His hand would find my body, my waist, my thigh, my neck, pulling me into him, grounding me, claiming me, reminding me in every second that I was his and he was mine and there was no space between those two things.
Now, he sits beside me like he’s afraid of me.
Like I might break if he touches me the wrong way. Like I’m something fragile. Like I’m something he has to be careful with. And I hate how much that hurts.
I shift slightly, the movement pulling at my side, and I try to ignore it as I turn toward him just enough to close some of that space myself.
My hand lifts.
I hesitate for half a second, and then I reach for him anyway, my fingers brushing against his arm.
He stills.
Not dramatically.
Not pulling away.
But there’s a moment, just a fraction, where he doesn’t immediately respond. Where he doesn’t meet me halfway. Where he doesn’t pull me into him the way he used to. And that hesitation lands deeper than anything else. It makes me hesitate too. Makes me want to pull back. Makes me wonder if I imagined what we were before all of this.
“I just…” My voice falters slightly, and I hate that it does, hate that I feel like I have to ask for this. “Can you… just hold me?”
The words feel small coming out.
Too small for what I actually mean.
Too small for what I actually need.
For a second, I think he’s going to say no.
Not with words.
But with silence.
