From the Hatbox
©ESR 2025

The kind that doesn’t pat you awkwardly on the back and call it done.
The kind that doesn’t try to fix or shush your tears.
The kind that holds.

I’d step into your space gently, not rushing, giving you a moment to breathe—to decide if you’re ready.

Then I’d pull you close with both arms, firm and steady like you deserve to be held.
Like you’re not a burden.
Like you’re not “too much.”
Like you’re just right in someone’s arms for once.

My chest would be warm against your cheek. My chin would rest lightly on top of your head. One of those subtle little sways might happen—where the body rocks, not out of habit, but because some part of me knows that rhythm soothes you.

You wouldn’t have to say a word.
You could cry.
You could go silent.
You could laugh halfway through the tears.
You could stand there, melting inch by inch, while your body finally stops bracing for the next bad thing.

And I wouldn’t let go until your shoulders finally dropped.
Until your breath got deeper.
Until you remembered that being held doesn’t have to come with a price tag or a warning label.

That you can just… be.
In someone’s arms.
And still be safe.

That’s how I’d hug you.

No apologies.
No time limit.
Just all the presence I can give.
For as long as it takes.