The apartment reeked of turpentine and unwashed scrubs. Her lamp burned for three nights straight. Shadows ate the walls.
She used my razor. I wore her socks. Found her hair in my coffee. Left it there.
Therapy preaches boundaries. We leaked. Stained each other.
The world says to be whole before we love. To never need too much. As if love is meant to be measured, rationed, kept clean. As if the safest way to touch fire is to never get too close.
At 3 a.m., she shook me from sleep. No words. We walked to the shore. Ice cracked under black-lit moon. She gripped my wrist - not for balance, but to count the skips. Proof of damage. Proof of work.
Fire can’t be touched with gloves.
Love isn’t additive. It’s a solvent. Dissolves the yours and mine. It trespasses. It stains. Leaves fingerprints on your ribs, in the way you know someone’s exam schedule better than they do, in the half-finished sentences only they can complete.
Morning came. We didn’t speak. She mended my jacket with red thread. I didn’t mention the color. The stitches pulled taut. Held.