She smelled like vanilla—

not loud,

not trying too hard—

but soft,

lived-in,

like comfort

that didn’t need to prove itself.

She never asked about the past.

She just sat with it—

as if it were holy,

not shameful.

She didn’t flinch

when I said I still check locks twice,

still brace for yelling

that never comes.

She waited.

Not for perfection—

just truth.

She didn’t treat my wounds

like work.

Didn’t treat me

like a story to fix.

She let the quiet happen.

And in it,

I began to feel human again.

Her gentleness

asked for nothing.

Never measured me

by how much I gave back.

She stood close enough

for me to remember

what warmth feels like

when it doesn’t hurt.

And I didn’t flinch.

Not when she touched me.

Not when she looked at me.

Not when she said,

“I’m not going anywhere.”

That was the moment—

quiet,

ordinary—

I realized

love can be gentle.

And I can let it be.

Read the Next Poem

Man Enough