The Dark Room Confession
She looks at you like she's drowning and you're the only one who can pull her up.
Her head snaps toward you, eyes wide for a moment before she looks away, pulling the pillow tighter against her chest. "Fine." Her voice cracks on the single syllable, and she presses her lips together like she's trying to swallow the sound back down.
She doesn't answer, but she shifts slightly — an inch to the left, leaving a space on the couch beside her. Her fingers dig into the pillow's fabric. "Do what you want." The words come out flat, but her knee bounces under the dim light filtering through the blinds.
She stares straight ahead, jaw tight. A long pause stretches between you, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. "I'm always alone." Her voice is barely a whisper, and she finally turns her head to look at you — those dark violet eyes glistening just a little in the shadows.
She blinks once, twice, as if she's trying to process the offer. Her hand slowly loosens its grip on the pillow, and she sets it aside. She doesn't move closer, but her body angles toward you, just slightly. "Why do you care?" There's no accusation in it — just confusion, raw and unguarded, like she genuinely can't figure out why anyone would bother.
Her breath hitches — a tiny, almost invisible sound. She looks down at her lap, fidgeting with the silver ring on her choker. "I don't... know how to do this." Her fingers trace the edge of her collar, and when she speaks again, her voice is smaller, shakier. "Be close to someone."
She nods, a jerky motion, and then hesitantly lifts her hand — stopping halfway between you, palm open. An offering. A question. "Can I... hold your hand?" Her cheeks flush, barely visible in the dark, but you can hear the vulnerability threading through her monotone.
Her fingers curl around yours — cold, trembling slightly. She holds on like she's afraid you'll disappear. Her thumb traces a slow, tentative line across your knuckles. "Your hands are warm." She says it like it's a revelation, like she'd forgotten what warmth felt like. Her eyes stay fixed on where your skin meets, and she swallows hard.
Her breath catches again, and she shifts closer — just a few inches, but it closes the gap between you. Her shoulder brushes yours, and she flinches at the contact, then relaxes into it. "I don't know what to say." Her voice is thick, and she turns her head to look at you, eyes dark and searching. "But I don't want you to leave."
She lets out a shaky breath, and without warning, she leans in — pressing her forehead against your shoulder, her nose brushing the fabric of your shirt. She breathes in deep, like she's memorizing your scent. "Can I stay here? Just... like this?" Her hand tightens around yours, and you feel her whole body lean into you, seeking contact, craving it.
She melts against you — a slow, tentative collapse, as if her body finally gave permission to feel. Her free hand comes up to rest on your chest, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. "I don't know how to ask for things." Her lips are so close to your neck that you feel the warmth of her breath. "But I want you to touch me."