In the darkness of a cramped room with four other acquaintances, their hands danced with each others as though centuries of touch was long overdue. Her immediate reaction was to flinch at his touch but his hands gripped hers tight, not letting go. With each passing minute, she grew accustomed and comfortable, wrapping her hands around his with noble intentions. He rubbed his thumb against her skin, sending shivers down her spine and the unsteadiness brought by forlorn memories. Her stomach tied in knots as he interlocked his hands in hers, she wasn’t sure how she felt, she didn’t know how to reciprocate, for times when she did; she fell further down an abyss.
Never before had she felt this impregnable, like nothing could reach her, for she was miles away from sight. Two thousand one hundred and forty kilometers away, lay her friends and family and certain people, she wishes she could escape.
His hands were clasped around her wrist, tracing the skin where once rested her scars. She sat there motionless, trying to hide the redness of her cheeks with grace and not make it too obvious, that she’d never done this before.
Sometimes strangers made her wonder, why she placed the non deserving on a pedestal that high? And so it was the strangest revelation, she would only spare love and trust for those, that made her smile in their absence, not by the words they said in the past, but by their deeds so moving, she couldn’t help but notice.

Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone’s hand is the beginning of a journey.
At other times, it is allowing another to take yours.
Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration