The Gentle Hurt
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 1,219
Jada used to count hugs like stars—small, bright comforts scattered through her day. A good-morning squeeze from her mother, a quick, laughing embrace from her best friend, a warm wraparound from her little brother when she came home late—each one shimmered in her memory like constellations of love. Back then, touch meant safety. It meant being seen, held, and known.
But now, each embrace felt like glass pressed into her skin.
What once offered warmth now summoned a flinch. Even the gentlest touch seemed laced with a hidden threat, a question she didn’t want to answer. Her body, once open to affection, had learned a new language—one of bracing and retreat. Hugs weren’t comfort anymore; they were tests of endurance. She’d smile through them, arms stiff, breath held, waiting for it to be over.
She wasn’t sure when it had changed—only that it had. Maybe it was after the silence between her and her father grew too wide to cross. Or after the betrayal of someone who said he loved her but only loved control. Whatever it was, it left a residue. Now, closeness scraped instead of soothed.
She missed the girl who counted stars.
The morning sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, bathing the room in a soft gold glow. Jada sat on the edge of her bed, her body still and stiff, as if molded in wax overnight. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her robe, the motion sending a sharp jolt through her shoulder.
Downstairs, the aroma of cinnamon toast drifted up. James was cooking again. Ever since the diagnosis, he’d taken to making breakfast every morning, a kind of quiet rebellion against the helplessness he felt. He never said it aloud, but she saw it in the way he hovered, the way his brow furrowed each time she winced.
“Good morning, baby,” he said when she entered the kitchen, a soft smile on his lips. His arms opened without thinking—an invitation that used to be second nature.
She flinched. Just slightly, like a bird sensing a sudden gust of wind.
His arms paused mid-air.
She forced a smile. “Morning.”
“I made your favorite,” he said, slowly letting his arms fall. He busied himself with the toaster, pretending not to notice the space between them.
The silence stretched. Not awkward—just unfamiliar. Like walking into your childhood home and finding the furniture rearranged.
They used to hug all the time. Before. After. During anything. Long hugs, tight ones. Hugs that squeezed the breath out of you. But lupus didn’t just attack her joints—it snuck into her relationships, too. Every time she cried out from a touch meant to comfort, it etched a deeper line between love and pain.
Later that day, her niece Leila came over, bouncing into the living room like a burst of energy. Seven years old and all limbs and questions.
“Auntie Jada!” she squealed and ran forward.
Jada braced herself.
Leila wrapped her arms around Jada’s waist, pressing her cheek into her belly. Jada’s teeth clenched as pain shot through her ribs. Still, she kept her hands gently on Leila’s back, stroking slowly, pretending.
“You okay, Auntie?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
But later, in the bathroom, she locked the door and leaned over the sink, her breath coming in tight gasps. Her ribs throbbed. Not from the force—Leila had barely touched her—but from the betrayal of her own body.
That night, James tried again.
They sat on the couch, a cushion of silence between them, the flickering TV casting pale shadows across their faces. The documentary played on—something about ancient ruins or endangered birds—neither of them truly watching. The screen was just a distraction, a safe backdrop for the distance they were trying not to name.
His fingers brushed hers.
She didn’t pull away this time.
It was the first contact in days that hadn’t been accidental or carefully avoided. The barest touch, but it lingered.
“I miss hugging you,” he said finally, the words quiet, almost fragile.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her silence already carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things—the tension that curled in her shoulders, the way her eyes never quite met his anymore, the way she breathed like she was always bracing for impact.
“I feel like I’m not allowed to touch you anymore.”
His voice cracked around the word allowed, as if the intimacy they used to share had become forbidden territory.
“It’s not you,” she whispered.
But the words felt like they were trying to convince both of them.
“I know,” he said. “But it still feels like punishment.”
She turned toward him slowly, as though every movement required effort. “You think I don’t want to be held? That I don’t dream of it?”
He blinked, startled by the ache in her voice.
“Do you know what it’s like,” she continued, her throat tightening, “to fear the very thing that used to make you feel safe? To want someone’s arms around you and flinch when they try?”
His mouth opened, then closed again. What words could he offer to answer pain he couldn’t touch?
He reached out—not to hug, not to fix, but to offer his hand.
An invitation, not a demand.
She looked at it for a long moment. Then, with trembling fingers, she took it.
Their palms pressed together, tentative at first, then tighter. Their fingers laced, anchoring them to the present, to each other.
They sat in silence, not needing to fill it. It wasn’t a hug, but it was something.
A tether. A promise. A fragile bridge between what was and what might still be possible.
Weeks passed. They adapted. The rhythm of their lives shifted—quietly, without ceremony, like furniture slowly rearranged in the night. He stopped reaching for her hand without thinking. Instead, he kissed her forehead, a soft promise that asked for nothing in return.
He learned to read the days with careful eyes: the ones when she winced at sunlight, when even the softest thread of a blanket felt like fire. On those days, he stayed close but not touching, his presence a silent offering.
Other days were better. On those, she allowed his arm to drape gently around her shoulders, their bodies barely touching, as though even kindness had to tiptoe. They held their breath together—her, hoping her body wouldn’t betray her with a sudden ache; him, praying his love wouldn’t become another burden she had to carry.
And then there were the rare, golden days, when the pain seemed to loosen its grip. She would sigh, lean into him slowly, carefully, as if testing a truce. Her head would rest against his chest, her voice a whisper against his shirt: “Don’t squeeze. Just stay.”
He always did.
It wasn’t perfect. There were still sharp edges and unspoken grief, the quiet mourning of a life redefined. But it was real—rooted in patience, in choosing each other without the fanfare of romance novels.
And in that steadiness, in the small, sacred acts of accommodation and understanding, the hurt softened. Not gone, not forgotten. Just... bearable.
Because love, when it doesn’t try to fix or rescue, but simply remains, has a way of making even pain feel a little less cruel.
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