I don’t like to be touched, I say.
A belief I stitched into myself not long ago.
I used to claim physical touch as my love language—
until something shifted.
I think it was control.
I wanted to decide when, how, and who,
but the weight of permission made it complicated.
How do you tell a friend—
a friend whose love is expressed in the casual brush of an arm,
the absentminded squeeze of a shoulder—
that touch must be earned, requested, granted?
It felt uncomfortable, unnatural,
so instead, I let the discomfort settle in my bones
until it hardened into a rule:
I do not like to be touched.
And I was serious about it.
Loyal to my own decree.
I made it known, made it clear,
crossed my T’s, dotted my I’s,
left no room for misunderstanding.
And so the world adapted.
Hugs became waves.
My mother’s comforting hand withdrew.
My best friend no longer leaned into me.
I was content—
it was exactly what I asked for.
Until I realized the absence of touch
had hollowed something out inside me.
A loneliness that festered beneath my skin.
Still, I ignored it.
I was firm in my boundaries—
until I met you.
With you, I caved.
A brush of our legs, and I shivered.
Something thawed,
something softened,
and the weight I carried felt lighter in your presence.
It was messy,
but I clung to it, to you.
Then you left,
and with you went the comfort I had forgotten I needed.
The longing came back, sharper this time,
but now, no arms to fall into.
No shoulder to rest my head on.
I had spoken my truth so often, so passionately,
that now it had become my prison.
The last time I saw you,
you let me stay in your arms until I was ready to go.
I hadn’t been held like that—
maybe ever.
It has been almost four months since,
and I can count on two hands the number of times
I’ve been embraced since you walked away.
Tonight, for the first time since goodbye,
I hugged a pillow as I cried on the couch.
Because I cannot explain how deeply I need to feel again.
And soon, we will be reunited.
For a moment, I might get that feeling back.
But I know you are not my forever,
and soon, the loneliness will return.
Sometimes, I wish I had kept my silence.
It is my own fault no one reaches for me.
Not something worthy of tears.
But oh,
how desperately,
how achingly,
I crave to be held.
