I’m touch starved.
I realized it while I was tying up the back of a surgical gown on one of the surgeons and my fingers gently grazed his back. Just that small, accidental contact, and my brain went quiet for a second. It felt good to be that close to another person.
I’m still thinking about it now, laying in bed at home. I grazed a stranger’s back and my body lit up with longing—but not for him. For the concept of him. For that version of closeness where someone knows the weight of your head on their chest and wants it there again tomorrow.
The person who doesn’t get tired of you.
The one you instinctively turn to after you read something, because you need to know what they think. The one you look at when you laugh, because you want to see if they thought it was funny too.
Do you know how rare that is?
And once you’ve had that kind of intimacy—once you’ve known what it feels like for two people to fit together like that—you can’t unsee it.
You know it exists. And it makes everything else feel like nothing.
Because that’s the only kind of touch that would mean anything.