The first thing I notice is an abandoned coffee cup on the windowsill. It’s in a plain white mug, and although it is filled to the brim, there is no steam rising from it. The window is cracked and the shades are drawn, light filling the living room and illuminating the dust particles floating above the lone couch in the center. I moved quietly past it, careful to be light on my feet so as not to disturb anyone else in the house, although I’m sure you’re the only one home.
Your bedroom door is cracked, and all I can see are a pile of blankets on top of your bed. I open the door slowly, not wanting to wake you, but that’s when I see you sitting at a desk across the room. I look again at the bed, and see the pillows have been ruffled just enough to look like a body. I stand at the door, watching you scribble on a piece of paper, your other hand holding your head up. Your fingers are dug into your hair, as though you’ve been tugging on it subconsciously. You cross something out, and then continue the short, quick strokes of your handwriting. I walk over to you slowly and see the word “Resume” written in bold letters at the top.
You don’t acknowledge me, not yet. You know I’m there, but you’re not ready to accept my presence in your room, you’re not ready to take in the fact that I have breached your safe space and am only inches away from your right shoulder. You feel betrayed that I’m there in the first place, but you don’t shoo me away. You continue scrawling, and crossing, and scrawling some more.
I put my hand on the back of the chair and stand as still as I possibly can. I wait until you’re ready to take me in, until it’s on your terms, and only then will I break the barrier and allow myself to physically touch you – only when you decide it’s okay.
You slowly put the pen down, perpendicular to the paper. Your eyes are still fixed, as though you’re reading words you haven’t written yet. It’s not until your eyes have traveled to the very bottom of the page that you finally lift your head to look at me. You see that I have one hand on the back of the chair, and the other hanging at my side, careful not to make you feel trapped or uncomfortable. You reach up with the hand that was once holding the pen and let your two outside fingers brush against mine on the chair. Then you hold your hand there, not pulling away, not yet.
After a minute, you rise from the chair and make your way over to the bed in a silent trance, where you then sit against the edge. I walk slowly behind you before joining you, our knees touching. Neither of us speaks, because there are no words that could fill the space between us without invading it. Instead, you reach your hand out and loop your pinky around mine. A silent peace offering – one that I am eternally grateful for. I look over at you, our pinkies now intertwined, and your eyes drift and your head leans ever so slightly. I wrap my arm around you just as your head hits my shoulder.
We sit like that for what feels like hours – our pinkies held tight, your head on my shoulder, neither of us making a move in any direction except maybe an inch closer together. I wait there, for your next move, for as long as it takes. I wait for the signs, the signals, the nod that tells me it’s okay to hold your whole hand this time, the faint indication of a smile that lets me know I can wrap both arms around you and squeeze tightly. I wait, and keep waiting, while whispering soft prayers against your baby haired-forehead until you drift off into a light sleep, one that I pray is free of nightmares, one that will allow you to wake up feeling rested and ready to face whatever comes next.
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