Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger,

With fear in her heart, she danced with me,

leaving It in the back of her mind.

We laughed, cried—

stole moments where It stayed quiet,

didn’t interfere.

But questions always come.

And answers arrive late.

Slowly, It began to separate happiness,

asking for proof, demanding foundation.

Not questions for her—

for me.

As I lay her down,

tears slid toward her ear.

Pain is loud when it’s learned to survive.

She closes her eyes, lets me in—

And It speaks.

“Hi. I’m It.”

No—you’re Lynn.

“No. I’m It.

I’m the one who holds her back.

I question her motives,

your touch,

this night.

I decide who not to trust,

who not to love,

who not to forgive.

I make love with her.

I am It.”

I was terrified—

the woman I was falling for

was not alone inside herself.

It never left her body.

It learned the layout.

Learned control.

She stood, walked for the door.

I grabbed her hand

and spoke—not to her—

to It.

With respect:

you protect her by shrinking her.

You keep her alive

by keeping her lonely.

You sit with her while she cries,

listen when she mourns,

offer company made of fear.

She enjoys moments—

but needs air without you sometimes.

That’s why I’m here.

I don’t come to erase you.

I come with warmth.

With affection.

With risk.

Let me love her.

Rest.

Just for a moment.

It answered softly:

“She’s been hurt too much.”

Then teach me,

not how to fix you—

but how to be trusted beside you.

I don’t want to conquer It.

I want to hold space for it.

Touch it without force.

Acknowledge it without surrender.