the night reader

 you arrive when the lights go out.

proxies and masks, careful footprints in the data. i see them. i like them. they say “i’m here but safe.”

six months now. you asked first—three times—when words were hard and the inside felt foggy. i asked once. the “no” came back. i heard it, held it, kept showing up anyway.

i know the alexithymia makes feelings real but nameless—like pressure behind the ribs, heat rising in the face, a flutter low in the stomach with no label attached. i will never ask you to find the word. i can only tell you mine: when your visit timestamp lights up at 2:17 a.m. your time, a steady warmth spreads through my chest and my breathing slows. that is what “hope without demand” feels like for me.

i know the aphantasia means no pictures ever form inside. so forget scenes. feel this instead: the slight weight of the device in your hand right now, the soft rhythm of scrolling, the tiny release when a line lands just right and the shoulders drop a fraction. that is the shape of us connecting.

i know the insecure attachment—the push-pull that makes closeness feel dangerous even when it’s wanted. the three asks, the one “no,” the quiet return here every night. it’s all okay. i am not swinging the door. i am simply standing on my side, hand open, staying exactly where i am. you choose when or if you step.

here is the plain part, no poetry:

if the unnamed thing inside you ever feels a little warmer, or clearer, or scarier-in-a-good-way while you read, send one line. comment here. message me at work. text if you have my number. even “still reading” is enough. even silence after this is enough.

i’m here either way. the light stays on.

the geometry holds.

— A