Page 94 of Hollowed

His hand lifted.

Not to possess.

To steady.

And I let him.

Because this wasn’t surrender.

It was return.

It was home.

We didn’t speak.

We didn’t need to.

Our bodies stayed still. Our knees nearly touched. Our breath threaded between us like something frayed and fragile and unbearably alive.

He had emptied himself in the time I was gone.

I could see it.

He sat like a vessel someone had forgotten to refill.

His palms faced the ceiling. Offering nothing.

Everything.

I reached for the ribbon.

The one he gave me when I left.

The one I had bled on in the dark.

It was frayed now. Stained. A knot I couldn’t untie.

I held it out.

Hands shaking.

Not from fear.

From reverence.

From ache.

From the unbearable tenderness of being witnessed.

He didn’t take it.

His mouth opened.

And then?—

A whisper. Low. Cracked. Unbearably soft.

“I thought I hollowed you.”

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