Stranger.

When does the touch of a person feel like it burns your skin? Maybe it happens when what should comfort only reminds you of what never was. Affection, meant to be soothing, feels foreign and heavy, like it's something you can’t recognize anymore.

Love, once familiar, has become strange—open in a way that feels too exposed, too raw.

When a hand is raised, you flinch. It’s a reflex now, one that you can’t shake off, because you no longer believe it’s meant for you. Instead of warmth, you brace for something sharp, something that will leave a mark. 

The touch that once meant care, a reminder of what’s changed. You don’t pull back out of fear but because it’s unfamiliar, like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak. And so, you stand there, waiting for the sting, only to be left with the ache of memories.

You forget but your body doesn't. They forget but you never will. Each touch feels like a test. Will this one burn too? Will it leave a scar that won’t fade? You don’t want to pull away, but you can’t help it. You’re caught between wanting to feel safe and knowing that whatever this is, is never guaranteed.

It's weird how it works. It's weird how you never asked for love to be a stranger, but she fades into the crowds on the streets. Now she says hi, like you were supposed to wave first.