I learned to scan the sky for storm clouds
every time the sun stayed too long—
I clung tight
because people slip
when I loosened my grip—
I was never asking for too much.
I was asking for consistency
in a world that kept moving the goalposts.
And then,
they arrived.
Not with lightning.
Not with thunder.
Just quiet presence
and eyes that didn’t look away.
They didn’t ask me to shrink.
They didn’t vanish when my voice cracked.
They didn’t label my longing
a liability.
They just held space
like it was holy.
They answered the text.
They showed up the next day.
They let me be,
without needing me to do.
And slowly—
oh so slowly—
My nervous system stopped flinching
at love.
I find peace
where there used to be panic.
Laughter
where there once was chasing.
Stillness
in the middle of connection.
They didn’t fix me.
They loved me in the weaving of a life that is soft and warm.
And in that soft, unshaken bond,
I am finally finding what safety feels like.
Not silence.
Not distance.
But this:
A love that stays
when I shake.
Friends who lean in
when I want to run.
Soul mates who prove—
not every great love story is romantic.
Some are resurrection.
Some are rewiring.
Some are renewing.
Some are rest.
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