We’re sitting too close,
but not close enough,
each of us shifting,
pretending not to notice
how the space between us
feels too wide and too small at the same time.

The TV’s on,
but neither of us is watching.
It’s just noise,
filling the silence that neither of us wants to break.
Your hand brushes mine,
and neither of us pulls away—
but we don’t move it, either.
Just leave it there,
hovering,
like we’re both waiting
for the other to decide
what comes next.

You glance at me,
and for a moment,
I think I’ll say something,
but the words are stuck,
and all I can hear
is the beat of my own pulse.
I laugh awkwardly,
and you do the same,
like we’re both trying
to make this normal,
trying to convince ourselves
that we know what we’re doing.

You slowly shift,
your arm moving carefully,
testing the space between us,
and I’m not sure if it’s a question
or just an instinct.
But I don’t pull away,
and I don’t know why.

When you finally settle in,
it feels too right and not right enough—
my shoulder against yours,
our knees brushing,
our breath a little faster
than it should be.
I feel the weight of your body
next to mine,
but it doesn’t feel heavy—
just real.

It’s awkward,
but in a way that makes me want to stay.
There’s no rush.
We’re both figuring it out,
one small, hesitant movement
at a time.