Hearts we leave behind
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In London, love had been soft.
Rain on the windows, Raghav's laughter in the kitchen, my books spread across his lap while he traced idle circles on my wrist. It was a life I'd built far from the whispers of my hometown, a love so steady it felt like home itself.
But coming back meant facing the ghosts I'd left behind.
But at the end nothing lingered longer than it needed to.
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She was terrified of touch-flinching at even the gentlest brush, retreating from warmth as if it could burn her. To her, touch had always meant pain, a reminder of wounds too deep to heal. She built walls, convinced that no one could ever reach her without breaking her apart. But then came him. His touch wasn't forceful; it wasn't something to fear. It was patient, steady-like a quiet promise that she was safe. And before she knew it, the arms she once feared became the home she never knew she needed.
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