Tightens When You Move

It snaked tighter when he shifted, sliding through the spaces he left open, winding between his ribs, curling where breath should have been. It moved like warmth at first, like something meant to hold him, coil after coil, snug and steady, a presence so familiar he mistook it for comfort.

But love, like this, tightens when you move wrong. When you reach for air.

It didn't strike. No fangs, no venom. Just the slow, patient squeeze. A constriction mistaken for embrace. A grip that convinced him he was safe, even as it stole the air from his lungs.

He let it happen. Thought it was supposed to feel this way. Thought love should press in, reshape him, make him smaller, make him fit inside the space it allowed. But when he tried to breathe deep, to stretch, to move beyond what it had decided he could be—

That was when it reminded him:

It had never been his to hold.