It had been seven days since anyone touched me.
Not even by accident—no brushed arms, no shared seats, no hand exchanging change.
Just silence. Skin without contact.
I’d held it together at work. Masked my voice. Kept my limbs neat, my posture relaxed enough to pass for fine.
But my jaw had been clenched since Monday.
When I stepped into the room, I didn’t speak.
She didn’t either.
The lamp hummed low. The mirror reflected nothing but outline.
And I stood, still zipped into my coat, unable to make the first move.
I. She Saw It Anyway
Her name was Mila.
Size 6 frame. Early twenties at most. Blonde, with eyes like wet granite—soft, grounded, unmoved by performance.
She tilted her head once.
Then reached for the zipper.
Not suggestively. Not gently. Just… there.
Her fingers grazed mine as she slid it down.
“Let’s take this off, mm?” she said.
Her voice—sincere, warm, not coaxing—found the version of me I hadn’t prepared to bring.
I let her unfasten me like I was too tired to hold my own weight.
Because I was.
My hands stayed at my sides.
And still, she didn’t ask me to participate.
She just helped.
II. A Lesson Without Laughter
I didn’t know how to undo a bra.
Never had to. Never thought I’d admit it.
My hands hovered, uncertain.
She noticed. Didn’t flinch.
“Here,” she said, sliding my fingers to the clasp.
“Just like this.”
No mocking. No smile curled at the edge of her mouth.
Just instruction—offered as care, not correction.
Something then opened in my chest.
The kind of opening that feels like falling.
And still—she didn’t move away.
Her body wasn’t offering permission.
It was offering calm.
And I, for once, didn’t try to earn it.
III. The Second Sleeve
Later, as I dressed, my arm caught in the coat.
Then, without speaking, she helped again.
Her fingers found the second sleeve and lifted it gently—like the first had never ended.
Like this moment belonged to the same thread.
That small gesture did something larger than I could say.
It returned me to myself without asking who I had been before.
No performance. No pity.
Just repetition. Quiet, human.
Care wasn’t an arc. It was a loop.
IV. The Ending That Isn’t One
I didn’t weep.
Not outwardly.
But something loosened.
The coat was off.
The breath stayed.
Some gestures don’t arrive. They anticipate.
And sometimes, that’s enough to hold you.
If this piece landed for you, pass it on.
A quiet share is how these felt truths travel to readers who might need them.
And if you’d like to continue supporting me in writing pieces like this, consider tipping.
Any amount helps.
Thank you.
- Søren Vale
Felt Truths exists because of Ирина. She saw me before I believed I could be seen.
Holy crap. You’re a phenomenal writer. Felt every word of this. Nicely executed. 👏🏽☕️