If I’m slow to trust, it’s because my body remembers what my mind learned too young. That love could turn cold without warning. That closeness didn’t always mean safety. I learned to read between the lines of someone’s tone, to prepare for disappointment even in joy. I stopped expecting permanence and started rehearsing exits in silence. Not out of bitterness – but protection. It was easier to prepare for loss than to be caught surprised by it.

So now, when something good shows up, I still hesitate. I watch kindness closely, not because I doubt it, but because I’ve seen how quickly kindness can shift into control. I don’t offer my stories freely. I don’t let just anyone near the parts of me that still tremble. I’ve learned to keep company with my caution.

But I am trying. To unlearn the idea that love must be earned. To soften when someone stays. To trust hands that don’t tighten when I speak my truth. Some days that trust is a whisper. Some days it’s a full breath.

What I want now is simple. Not perfection. Not constant reassurance. Just a presence that doesn’t punish my pace. A steady hand that says, take your time, I’m not going anywhere.

And slowly, I believe it. Not all at once. But in the quiet moments where nothing is asked of me but to be real.