Attachment is a strange, almost humorous thing.

It begins with a stranger.

A person who exists in the world without weight in yours. Their face is just another face. Their name just another name. Their hands, just hands.

And then one day you sit across from them.

You notice the shape of their jaw. The way their beard frames their mouth. The quiet curve of their lips when they almost smile. The way their hairline meets their forehead. The ring resting on their finger. The watch they absentmindedly adjust. The way fabric falls over their shoulders.

Details. Harmless details.

Then one day you hold those hands.

You touch that face.

You kiss those lips.

And it is still fine.

There is space. There is air. You are still two separate bodies, carefully aware of the edges of yourselves. There is something brewing, perhaps, but it feels safe. Contained. Optional.

Then you do it again.

And something shifts.

This time you do not feel like skin against skin. You do not feel like an object resting against another object. You dissolve. You soften. You melt past the surface and into something deeper. Suddenly there is no clean outline of where you end and they begin.

And that is when it becomes dangerous.

Attachment is not loud. It does not announce itself. It builds intentionally, brick by brick, glance by glance, touch by touch. It disguises itself as curiosity. As comfort. As repetition.

Until one day you realize you are no longer observing them.

You are merging.

Two separate souls, slowly stitching themselves together through ordinary moments. Through hands held twice. Through lips kissed once too long.

And maybe that is the cruel beauty of it.

How something that began as nothing can quietly become everything.

You see, he’s not perfect, and he doesn’t pretend to be.
He doesn’t feed me pretty lies or promise me forever.
He’s never looked at me in a way that made me feel small.
I have no reason to hate him. No reason to fear him.

And yet, I do.

Because eventually, somehow, they always do.
Or maybe I will before he gets the chance. My mind has never exactly been gentle with me either.

You see, I once believed in a love that felt perfect.
The kind that swore it was real, untouchable, invincible.
And I was naive enough to believe every word of it.

So when it finally showed me its true colours, I think part of me refused to see it. Even while it was destroying me.
It took forever to accept that the thing I loved could hurt me that deeply.
And by the time I did, I had the bruises to prove it. Quite literally, I bled for it.

After that, I promised myself I’d be more careful.
That I’d protect my heart properly this time.
The armour came on. The walls went up.
The war was over, and I survived it.

But somewhere along the way, I got tired of carrying weapons everywhere.

And now my armour is off.
The earrings are back on.
My guard is gone.

I was supposed to take care of myself better after everything I learned.
I was supposed to know better.

But then I had to be reckless.

And now here we are.
You have a piece of me, and I still don’t know whether that terrifies me or makes me feel alive again.

He says,
“I’ve got something for you.”

And I’m in bed, folded into myself.
Curtains half drawn.
Heart half open.
Carrying the kind of day that settles on your chest without warning, without permission.

Just heavy.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Lilies in his hand.
My favorite.
Of course he knows.

There’s something about the way he walks in. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just, gentle. Like he sensed the fragility in the room before he even stepped into it. Like he understood that today I wasn’t strong, I was soft in the wrong ways.

And that hug.

God.

The kind of hug that doesn’t try to fix you.
Doesn’t ask you to explain yourself.
Just says, quietly,
I see you. I’m here.

And just like that, the gloom loosens.
The sadness doesn’t disappear, but it softens.
The air shifts.
The room feels lighter without a single switch being touched.

Tell me,
how am I supposed to tell my heart to slow down
when he feels like gravity
and I am already leaning?

His touch lingers, but it never cages.
His closeness never suffocates.
He doesn’t consume the space.
He steadies it.

There’s no performance in him.
No trying to be everything.
He just is.

And somehow, that simplicity feels dangerous.
Because it feels like home.

Not fireworks.
Not chaos.
Not the kind of love that leaves fingerprints in the shape of bruises.

Just warmth.
Just ease.
Just a man standing in a doorway with lilies in his hand, reminding me that love doesn’t always arrive as a storm.

Sometimes it arrives softly.
And stays long enough
for the dark
to forget your name.