She Was Sea

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.