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To look.
He is light. All of him. His eyes, his shirt, his smile. Even his thoughts must be light, too. White. Blinding. I look at him and squint, but I can't look away. I want to keep looking forever. He doesn’t know. He mustn’t know. To look is already selfishness. To steal warmth with a gaze when you dare not ask with your hands. If I could look forever, I would. Until I go blind. Until the light burns out my eyes. Maybe then I’ll stop wanting.
To touch.
His fingers are soft, smooth, free of hangnails and rough edges. They don't know what it's like to dig into your own palms until crescent wounds bloom beneath your nails. They don't know what it's like to clench your fists until your knuckles turn white. My fingers are rough, scarred, nails bitten down. It's embarrassing. I want to hide them. I don’t want him to see. I want him to touch them. To trace these scars, these calluses, and say it’s nothing. That they are mine. That he likes them. He’s lying, probably. Just like I wanted him to. But I want to believe.
To take hold.
Of his hand. To lace our fingers. His soft, mine rough. Contrast. Light and shadow. Honey and tar. He won’t pull away. I know he won't. He endures. Accepts. Squeezes back. Not as tightly as I do. Gently, as if I'm made of glass. As if I could break. Funny. I'm the one covered in thorns. And yet he strokes them. The thorns don't hurt him. Or maybe he doesn't feel them. Or maybe he simply doesn't care. I want to believe he doesn't care.
To press close.
With a shoulder. With my back. With my chest. With my whole body. I want to disappear into him. To dissolve. To become part of that bright light of his, so I won't have to see my own darkness. It’s stupid. Impossible. But I want it. Down to trembling knees, to the dryness in my mouth. To press close and freeze. To feel his heart beat. Rhythmic. Calm. Not like mine—scattered, frantic, pounding in my throat, my temples, my fingertips. His heart soothes like a lullaby. Like a promise that everything will be fine. Is it a lie? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. The truth cuts too deep.
To Cling.
With claws. To dig them into those soft, narrow shoulders. To leave crescent marks on his back—not in my own palms, on his back. Sharp little traces. So he remembers: I was here, I am here, I haven’t disappeared. Selfishness. Pure selfishness. I want to leave scars so he carries them as proof that he matters to me, that I exist. That he is mine. No. Not mine. I don’t dare. I have no right. But I want it so badly. To the point of aching jaws. To trembling fingers that already reach out, already ready to dig in.
To Squeeze.
His ribs. Fragile beneath my hands. I feel every one. Could count them if I wanted. I want to squeeze until they crack, until they splinter, until it hurts. Crush them to pieces, so he becomes part of me. Or I become part of him. I hold on, feeling the muscles tense beneath my fingers. Am I hurting him? He doesn't say. Doesn't ask me to let go. He stays. Keeps holding me. Keeps stroking my hair, my back, whatever remains of the soul I buried long ago. And I cling tighter. Until blood. Until marks. Until traces that won't fade. Until he finally pushes me away. But he doesn't. He only strokes my hair and waits. He's not breathing. Or maybe I just can't hear it. My own breathing drowns everything else out. My chest heaves. Something burns inside my ribs. My throat is dry. And he's still holding me. Still not asking me to let go. Still not pulling away. Just watching me with those understanding eyes.
To Become One.
My head spins, warmth spreads in my chest, my fingers unclench. I stop clawing. I stop squeezing. I just breathe. I just breathe. And with every breath something inside melts. The ice that grew for years. The thorns I cultivated myself, so no one would ever come close. They fall away one by one, leaving bare skin underneath. Exposed. Unprotected. It's terrifying. Part of me wants the thorns back. Wants to hide, to run. But he's here. Breathing. Smelling of vanilla. And I stay.
To cut.
His name in my heart. In the thing that aches when he leaves. In the thing that stills when he's near. In the thing I thought was dead, only to find it beating, thumping, demanding. Crying out. I want to tear open my ribcage, pull out this filthy, wounded, exhausted heart, and show it to him. "See? You're here. You've always been here. And I don't want you to leave." I'll cut his name into it with rough fingers, broken nails, scars, and calluses. Deep enough that it never fades.
He is light, blinding. I look at him and squint. Tears run down my cheeks. Not from pain. From the light. From the fact that it finally pierced every wall I'd built, every thorn, every patch of darkness. And I don’t want it to go out. Let it burn. Let it blind me. Let it leave marks on my skin. I'll wear them proudly.
Something burns in my stomach. Warmth spreads through my chest. My throat tightens. I want to scream, to howl, to tear the silence apart. But I stay silent. Because he's here. Because he's holding my hand. Because his fingers—soft, smooth, bright—trace my scars, my calluses, my bitten nails. And they don't pull away. They don't recoil.
A little light can soften a lot of darkness.
I used to think that was nonsense. That darkness would always swallow the light. That bitterness would drown out anything sweet. But now I'm sitting here, holding his hand, staring into his glow, and I can't get enough of it. Vanilla. Sweet, cloying, unbearable. I hate sweet things. But that scent is the only thing keeping me grounded, stopping me from falling into the black hole that's always lived inside me. I want to breathe it in until my lungs are full, until I stop tasting the bitterness that's soaked into every part of me. I squeeze his hand. Harder. Until it hurts. Until something should crack. Until something should break. He doesn't pull away. All I can see are his pale eyes reflecting my darkness.
Both of them.
The gold warms me—until my palms sweat, until heat rises in my cheeks, until I want to peel away every layer and let that warmth sink beneath my skin, melting the ice that's been gathering there for years.
The blue cools me—until my knees tremble, until goosebumps race down my spine, until I want to wrap myself in a blanket and hide away, but not run.
I close my eyes. I feel the tears drying on my cheeks. How something warm, deeply buried, is born in my stomach, glows in my chest, radiates in rays. And for the first time in a very long time, I exhale.
Light softens darkness.
Turns out, it really can.