You Never Touched Me

I didn’t want to go back.

After everything that happened the week before—walking out of Lane’s office in tears, falling back into old habits, trying to use someone to feel something—I just wanted to disappear. I didn’t want to face him, or myself.

But I showed up anyway.

Maybe it was stubbornness.

Maybe it was guilt.

Maybe it was that tiny voice inside me that still believed I could be more than this.

I arrived five minutes late. My shoes squeaked against the clean floor. My heart thudded so loud in my chest, I was sure he could hear it from the hallway.

I didn’t knock this time. I just opened the door and stepped in.

Lane looked up from his notes, calm as ever.

“Hi, Amelia,” he said.

I waited for the lecture, the disapproval, the disappointment in his voice.

But it never came.

He didn’t ask me where I’d been.

He didn’t ask me what I’d done.

He just nodded toward the chair across from him. “You can sit.”

I sank into the seat. I felt like I weighed a thousand pounds.

“I don’t want to talk today,” I mumbled.

“That’s okay,” he said, gently.

I blinked. “Really?”

“You don’t always have to talk,” he said. “Sometimes, just being here is enough.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t deserve his kindness, but here he was—offering it anyway.

I stared at the floor. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I messed up,” I whispered.

He didn’t respond with a question or a sigh. Just silence. Waiting.

“I… I thought it would help. That night. Hooking up again. But it didn’t.”

“Did it make you feel worse?” he asked, softly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Like I wasn’t even there. Like my body was, but the rest of me was… gone.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t act shocked.

Instead, he leaned forward just a little and said, “That’s a real feeling, Amelia. And it matters.”

I squeezed my hands together on my lap. They were trembling.

“I don’t know how to stop,” I admitted.

“That’s what we’re here to figure out together,” he said.

I felt the burn behind my eyes again. That familiar feeling before a cry. But I blinked it back.

“I don’t even know what it means to feel safe in my body,” I told him. “Touch has always meant one thing.”

Lane nodded slowly, then stood up from his chair.

“Would you be open to trying something today?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Like what?”

“Nothing scary,” he said. “No touching. Just a grounding exercise. Something to help you feel present.”

I wasn’t sure, but I nodded anyway. What else did I have to lose?

He walked over to a small shelf and grabbed a soft, square object—a folded blanket. Then, he handed me a small stone and a cold bottle of water.

“Touch each of these,” he said. “One at a time. And tell me what they feel like.”

I frowned. “That’s it?”

He smiled gently. “That’s it.”

I held the blanket first. It was soft, like a cloud. I ran my fingers over it slowly.

“Warm,” I said. “Comforting.”

“Good,” Lane said. “Now the stone.”

I switched and held the stone in my palm. It was cool, smooth, and heavy.

“Cold. Kind of calming.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Now the water.”

I opened the bottle and took a sip. It was crisp. Clean. It made my dry throat feel a little better.

I looked at him. “What does this have to do with anything?”

He sat back down.

“You’re learning how to be in your body without fear,” he said. “You’re letting yourself feel without needing it to be sexual.”

I swallowed hard.

That hit something inside me.

Because I didn’t know if I had ever done that before. Ever felt something—touch, texture, temperature—without expecting it to turn into something more.

Suddenly, I felt small.

Not weak. Just… honest.

“You never touched me,” I said quietly, looking at him.

He raised an eyebrow slightly, curious.

“Not once,” I added. “And still, you make me feel more than anyone ever has.”

His expression softened, but he didn’t say anything right away.

“Because it’s not about touch, Amelia,” he finally said. “It’s about presence. Attention. Safety.”

And that’s when it hit me.

I was starting to feel something that had nothing to do with being desired or wanted.

I was starting to feel safe.

Not because someone was holding me.

But because someone finally saw me.

I left the session quieter than usual.

But it wasn’t the same kind of quiet I came in with.

This time, I felt... steady.

My body didn’t feel like a stranger. Not completely.

My thoughts weren’t spinning.

My heart wasn’t racing.

It was like something inside me had taken a breath for the first time in years.

When I got home that night, I didn’t turn on the TV. I didn’t scroll through my phone looking for a stranger. I just sat on the couch with the same blanket Lane had handed me—he let me borrow it.

I ran my hands over it again. It was soft.

And it reminded me that I could feel things without fear.

Maybe this was how healing started.

Not all at once.

Not with some big dramatic moment.

But with something small.

Like a stone.

Or a sip of water.

Or a blanket.

Or the way someone’s eyes can say, You matter, without ever laying a hand on you.