Softest Corners

There are parts of me I’ve only ever offered in silence.

Little moments — a glance too long, a hand that lingers just a heartbeat past polite. The way I tilt my head when you say my name, giving away more than I should.

You never asked.

You never needed to.

There were things between us that words would have ruined — fragile, shimmering things, stitched from breathless glances and the way your fingers brushed mine under the table, like an accident you both pretended not to notice.

Now, in the quiet hours when the world forgets itself, you find me.

In the hush of half-sleep, when the air is thick with dreams, you’re there — the taste of your mouth ghosting across my lips, the weight of your hand trailing down the small of my back.

You don’t belong to me.

Maybe you never did.

But in the softest corners of my dreams, I still offer you the pieces of me that never learned how to stay silent.

And you…

you still take them without asking.

As if they were always yours to keep.