TOUCH.
tactioception.
***
"What are you writing about?" You say in your usual triumphant tone of voice, uttering your words with outright interest and peering down to look at the paper I'm holding on to.
I swiftly hide it behind me, away from your gaze, and dwell in the safety of the unseen.
You smile at me, shaking your head, and when I thought you would let it pass, you deliberately hold me in my arms to grasp the paper.
But I quickly pull myself away from your embrace.
I think you know. You know that you did something wrong, and that's why your smile fades, and silence comes in like an unwelcome visitor enclosing the room and filling us with its loathed discomfort.
"I'm sorry," your stare begins to wander around the room but not shifting to meet my eyes.
I remain silent, but my thoughts are loud. I want to touch you, clasp your fingers firmly, and feel your skin's warmth. I want to touch you, to feel your arms' gentleness. The safest place I know is right in your arms, yet, I know it could bring forth a danger to the both of us. But primarily to you.
You finally look at me, your eyes widening in confusion when you see my tears fall. You walk towards me, each step breaking through the invisible wall that separates the both of us.
You lean to me, carrying your weight but simultaneously giving your all to me, letting our bodies in direct contact. I try to move backward, but you stroke my cheek and wipe away my tears.
Your fingers bring me the sudden but familiar heat, my heart in an irregular beat, and my breath that you cannily take.
"Don't cry," you say.
"I am not crying," I respond.
But my foolish tears betray me as they continue to flow.
You probably think that I am being emotional over something ridiculous. Or you probably wonder why I am such a crybaby, but you choose not to ask.
You're quiet, and your lips are not moving, but it is enough because your touch speaks in a way that your words cannot thoroughly express, but it reaches my very soul.
Not only does my skin feel your touch, but it also penetrates my whole being.
"I'm in love with you," you say. I know you would say that. Ever since that day when you first touched me, I felt something else.
It is softer from the rough grasp of those who hate me but deeper from the gentle touch of those concerned for me.
It is not out of pity, but it is something more profound than anybody else's touch.
My skin would radiate flames that could burn. My touch was like the thorns that could prickle, and I am made of shards that could cause a wound.
But still, you touched me, despite all of these things, knowing that doing so would only inflict pain.
And all the walls that took me years to build broke down with your single touch.
I know this is not the right thing, but with that touch, it feels like it is. I slowly hug you back, letting myself surrender to you.
A smile formed on my lips. I wanted to touch you all these times, and now that you're here with me, I do not want to let you go.
"I'm in love with you too, my brother," I say the forbidden word that binds us together and simultaneously separates us from each other.
But our touch is greater than that forbidden word, or any word, for that matter.
