Member-only story
HELD
A reflection on self-love, solitude, and what it means to still want romantic intimacy
One of my favorite places to be is my bed.
The AC is set to a cool sixty degrees. The room is quiet. The sheets are clean. Everything has its place.
I’m surrounded by six pillows.
One cradles my head. Another rests against my back. One is tucked between my knees. Another finds its way under my feet. Somehow, each pillow knows exactly where it’s needed.
I lay there every morning, wrapped in softness, and I think:
God, I love my bed.
I love my space.
I love that I’ve built a home where I can exhale.
There is something deeply comforting about creating a life that feels safe enough to rest in. A clean room. Cool air. Fresh sheets. Pillows surrounding me from every direction. It’s a quiet kind of gratitude.
But somewhere between waking up and getting out of bed, another thought always finds me.
As these pillows hold me, I realize how much I still long to be held.
Not because I’m lonely or incomplete.
But because I know there’s a different kind of comfort that can’t be bought or arranged.
