Description
I fold myself like a map.
Corners tucked, creases memorized.
I become the quiet geometry of survival: arms as borders, breath as line.
People keep asking where I went.
They want coordinates, a timeline, a return ticket.
But disappearance is not a single night.
It’s a slow rehearsal of omission.
I withdrew not to punish you,
but to practice kinship with myself.
I learned how to fold around the sharp things—
the words that cut, the hands that steadied with force, the eyes that graded my heartbeat.
Those blue strokes across my skin are not decoration.
They are a ledger of tenderness I was taught to hide.
They are where longing pressed and left a stain.
Do not ask me to be easy.
Ease is how they erased me.
I will not be smoothed for convenience.
If you want to meet me, come with patience.
Bring no bright solutions.
Bring, instead, slow instruments:
a cup that will hold heat,
a voice that carries without fixing,
hands that learn to rest without rearranging.
Listen to how my shoulders keep archive.
They store small betrayals the way drawers collect receipts.
Name one. Say it aloud.
When you name it, you make it particular—
and particular things stop being ghosts.
I will tell you the truth because truth is safer than silence.
But my truth will come like a tide.
Sometimes it will be a single pebble: I am tired today.
Sometimes it will be a haul-net full of old weather and names and things that sound like thunder.
If you stay, learn the grammar of my withdrawal.
Know the difference between my quiet and my closing.
The first asks for company; the second asks for space.
Do not try to rescue my silence with louder speech.
Do not translate my edges into a problem you can solve.
Your job is not to fix the map; your job is to walk it with me, slow and unhurried.
There will be days when I fold into a smaller shape because shame visits like a collector.
On those days, remind me of the small rituals:
light a match without expecting a bonfire,
bring one biscuit,
sit without questions.
I am not a puzzle to be solved.
I am a body that remembers the pressure of judgement and learned to make a shelter from it.
Shelter is not rejection. Shelter is work.
When I let you touch me—
not to rearrange but to rest—
it will feel like permission granted to two hands at once.
My skin keeps receipts. It will check your name.
If your hands have a history of quick fixes, my skin will remember and tighten.
Tell me where you learned to be present.
Let me hear the small stories that taught you steadiness.
I will offer mine—
the nights I stayed awake with my own breath,
the mornings I taught my muscles how to carry me again.
We will build tiny liturgies.
A phrase we share when words congeal: I am here.
A gesture when storms come:
hand at the shoulder, palm flat, asking permission before resting.
And when I fail, because I will fail,
do not make the failure a tribunal.
Failures are maps too—
they show where the ground is tricky.
Love is not a single heroic moment.
It is the accumulation of small choices:
the minutes you stay on the call,
the time you resist an easy criticism,
the hour you keep the room warm enough that memory can unclench.
Will you be there when I return from my small disappearances?
Will you be there when I come back with different edges?
Will you be there when I show up in colors that hurt to look at because they are honest?
If yes, then say it like a breath: I will be here.
If no, say that too.
I can survive alone.
What I cannot survive is a promise that drips without warning.
Staying is both small and enormous.
It asks courage for minutes, not for medals.
It asks a willingness to learn new maps, to memorize the edges that matter most.
We will be imperfect teachers for each other.
We will bruise while learning how not to.
We will apologize, then practice better.
And when the blue returns—
those streaks across me that read like a ledger—
let them be seen without explanation.
It is enough that they are marked.
It is enough that they are noticed.
To stay is to choose an almost invisible work:
to practice presence when attention is a scarce thing.
To stay is to show up for minutes that add up into safety.
To stay is to learn the language of another’s silence until translation becomes unnecessary.
So will you still be there.
Not as a promise carved in stone, but as a soft, repeated verb.
Will you stay by doing the small, unglamorous things that make a person feel permitted to exist?
If you can, then begin now.
Put your phone away.
Turn the light down.
Say my name, not loud, not theatrical—just enough to make my body register your presence.
Sit.
Breathe with me.
Hold a hand gently.
And when you leave, leave in a way that lets me know you will return.