Hold my hand and say you love me

I don't hold hands. I must say this

strictly: aside from my three boyfriends, I've had countless ambiguous relationships where I could hug, kiss, and even sleep with people,
but I just wouldn't hold hands.

I simply feel that holding hands is a form of communication.
Although it sounds a bit noble, it's just my little stubbornness as a Taurus.

And the story should begin with holding hands.

-

I wasn't hurt; strictly speaking, it's a necessary part of life, not a real injury.
My personality is to keep things to myself and not share them with others.
When my third boyfriend broke up with me, I cried for a long time downstairs at his house.
Then, the next day, I woke up, smiled, put on makeup, and went to work.

I won't go into the details; everyone has that story.
I wasn't surprised by my recovery because I knew it was a necessary kind of strength.
If you fall, no matter how painful it is, you have to get up.

There are many reasons why I like to have fun, but none of them are excuses for me.
I've never minded that I enjoy having fun; I've always been open and honest.
Unlike some people who love to have fun but drag old wounds into it.

That might have been the most chaotic period of my life.

I don't go to shady places. My fun is finding a little excitement among acquaintances.
Maybe a former classmate, a colleague, or even a cute young man I meet on the street.

I'll give them opportunities, but I won't let myself get too involved.
I'll have physical contact with them, but I won't let them hold my hand.
I'll meet up with them when I'm in a good mood, and stay home and daydream when I'm not.

I like to be in control, but I don't want to be controlled; I yearn for freedom, but I crave being restrained.
Because I know this about myself isn't good, I don't even have the energy to socialize.

Arrogant, stubborn, and aloof, isn't that right?

-

When I see a murderer in Detective Conan killing their victim with a motive as trivial as a booger,
I always treat it as a comedy. But when I'm stuck because of some minor wound, unable to escape, I see myself as a tragedy.

Funny? Quite ridiculous.

I don't deny that I'm suppressing my own emotions, using being hurt as an excuse.
But I've said I won't use being hurt as an excuse for being fun, so I've never spoken of my pain.

After all, the sudden sight of two bodies intertwined would be a bit of a shock
and a source of sadness for anyone.

I take the kindness of those people towards me as nourishment for myself.
Undeniably, I never demand that anyone be kind to me.

What I'm used to is solemnly saying thank you when they're kind to me.
Not a fake thank you, but a sincere one.

Because I can see the lack of a future between us, and the apology hidden behind the thank you is never spoken aloud.
It's too painful.

I don't know if I should like this kind of life, but I seem to have no reason to hate it.
I'm content when someone is kind to me, but even if I know their feelings for me go far beyond friendship, I won't be moved.

The Taurus's little stubbornness: what they don't like, they simply don't like; and what they like, they love to the point of obsession.

Perhaps we hug because I crave human warmth.
Perhaps we kiss because I'm used to the moisture of lips.
Perhaps we make love because we're tired of what hands can provide.

Forgive me for being a cold person, but even if we act like a couple, if we don't hold hands, it's impossible.

Some

pretty girls always say being single is great.
That's because they have the assets.

Try thinking about it this way:
Being adored by many is always more vain than being loved by one.

When dating, you have to worry about everything; when single, a bunch of people pamper you.
When dating, sex feels like a routine; when single, you're grateful for even a small favor.
When dating, insecurity always plagues you; when single

, people are always asking where you are. What's so great about dating? What's so bad about being single?

There was a boy I almost held hands with, until I found intimate photos of other women on his phone.
There was a man I almost held hands with, until I saw those three words in the spouse section of his ID card.

And I stopped being interested.

Maybe I'm disappointed in relationships, maybe I'm disappointed in myself, or maybe I'm disappointed in the world.
Try it: imagine your most revered religion telling you today that it's just a scam.

You'll be confused, you'll want to hear it again to make sure you heard correctly, then you'll freeze, and then you'll crumble.

I'm not trying to say men are bad; the truth is, I can't live without a man.
I just want to say that this world can be utterly ridiculous.

So I always thought that my only insistence was my resistance against this world.
Maybe right, maybe wrong, but what does it matter?

–

“Holding hands is just a symbol,” the person opposite me said.

“A symbol?” I was puzzled.

“It’s the only gate in your locked castle,” he smiled at me.

Tonight, I just wanted to have a drink to relax, but the bar was full, and only a corner seat was left.
He was the man sitting next to me.
He didn’t have a car key.
He wasn’t old.
Very humorous.
A charming smile.
Dangerous.

When the topic turned to my love life, I was already slightly drunk.
Slightly drunk women are not very guarded, and I was no exception.

He leaned close to my ear and said he wanted to smell my hair; he was an expert.
And I like to have a worthy opponent.

I gave him a light kiss on the cheek.
He looked at me with some surprise, but then his expression returned to normal.

Just as he was about to take my hand, I instinctively pulled away, a habitual action.
He gave an awkward laugh, and I simply told him not to overthink it.
Although I didn't know if I was speaking to him or to myself,

I have to say that night was truly wonderful.

Appropriate yet respectable kisses,
beautiful yet shameless caresses.

But then I remembered the two bodies intertwined before me, and tears welled up involuntarily.

He gently kissed away my tears, then stopped and straightened my clothes.
I was somewhat puzzled; men rarely show sympathy for their prey after they've already captured it.

"Aren't you going to continue?" I looked at him.

"I want to spend more than just these few hours with you," he said casually, then lit a cigarette.

"Mind me?" he asked, turning to me. I shook my head.
"Want a puff?" he asked again.

"Sure." I took his cigarette and took a drag.
It felt like ages since I'd smoked, at least not since the last time we held hands, when I'd asked my ex-boyfriend for one.
It seemed like a bad memory.

"Don't you find it strange?" he asked me.

"A little."

"I see my knot in you," he said.

—He

said I'd remember him, but I knew I wouldn't forget him when I saw him again.
I stared at the chat window, unsure whether to reply or not.

Proud and stubborn as I am, I couldn't bring myself to admit I missed him, but that's exactly what happened.
I never like being the one to initiate things .

The next time I saw him was because I'd thought about it for a long time, feeling a bit lonely having no one to accompany me to dinner.
I simply typed a few words, and he appeared downstairs at my apartment right on time.

I thought he'd be busy, but he always said he'd show up no matter how busy he was.
I was thankful that sweet words had no effect on me, even though they made me a little happy at the moment.

Before he took me home after dinner, I did consider whether to let him come up for a while.
Maybe we could finish what we hadn't done last time, and lately I'd grown tired of the pleasure of his hands on me.

He laughed after I suggested we come up, and for a moment I felt ashamed.
He didn't answer me, kissed my forehead, and turned to leave.
I was a little taken aback, but also felt a sweet feeling that I couldn't explain.

I knew he was trying to show that he was special, but I couldn't resist his gentleness.
I don't know how many women he's won over with this tactic, but it was clear I was about to become one of his victims.

Yet, I was happy to accept it.

- ※ jkforum.net ｜ jkf Czech Forum

When we went out, we never held hands.
Occasionally when crossing the street, he would only put his arm around my waist.
He knew I didn't hold hands easily, so he never asked.
What's even more unusual is that he had numerous opportunities to sleep with me,
but even when I was sleeping at his house, he would pretend to be asleep early on.

I started to suspect he was impotent, short-handed, and ashamed to face people.
He didn't get angry when he heard these criticisms; he just had a half-smile on his face.

Oh, by the way, I would sleep at his house.

It's just that as winter approaches, I need a heater more. It's better
for two people to sleep together than for one person to be shivering in the cold.
I think these days, if you sleep together and nothing happens, people will laugh at you.

We tacitly avoid talking about the past
, present, and future.

He knows my tone, and I seriously say he's the most natural man I've ever been with.
Even though we were practically living together, we still didn't hold hands or have sex.

He once said he saw his knot in me, though it was somewhat ambiguous, I didn't ask further.

He gave me the warmth I needed, and I returned the same warmth to him.
The feeling of mutual warmth.

I know I can give more, but he never asks me for anything.
He knows I go out to eat with men, but he never says much.
He knew my handsome supervisor would invite me to the movies, but he didn't react much.

It was like we were together, yet each of us was independent.
A relationship, each with our own interpretation.
A strange, unspoken understanding.

—I

would foolishly check his phone while he was asleep, a rather ambiguous act.
First, I had no right to do it, and second, what would happen if I found out?

Just as I was slowly getting used to his warmth, his company, doing something like this would undoubtedly be digging my own grave.
If nothing happened, that would be best, but what if?

What if he had a girlfriend he'd been dating for years?
Or a string of ambiguous relationships?

I looked at his phone. Someone as smart as him knew he wouldn't leave any traces that would arouse my suspicion.
And the most suspicious thing was the meaning behind his kindness towards me.

I checked his phone; nothing was amiss, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
But I didn't know why I should feel relieved.

He made a sound, letting me know he wasn't asleep.
I jumped, and the phone fell onto the bed.

"You care about me, don't you?"

I didn't speak, because I didn't know what to say.

"Come here, it's warmer here." He gestured for me to return to the bed, and I obediently lay back down.

He held me tightly, then kissed me.
My heart raced; I sensed his passion was different tonight.

Our tongues intertwined, creating a lingering, passionate atmosphere.
He gently removed my clothes, though I was only wearing his t-shirt to bed, so there was practically nothing to take off.

It wasn't until he gently entered me that I realized he wasn't impotent, nor was his penis short—almost the opposite.
Perhaps it had been too long since I'd been with a man; I hadn't had sex with any other man since we started sleeping together.
The desire was awakened, and it was unstoppable.

We made love all night, until we saw the first light of dawn in the sky outside the window.
I lay in his arms, like a satisfied little woman.

"Why today?" I asked him out of the blue.

"Because you care about me."

"How so?"

"I don't know, I just feel it."

"Is sex your knot?"

"Not entirely."

"Then what is your knot?" I looked at him, but he didn't answer. This was a rare instance of me asking him a question.

He didn't speak again until I fell asleep in his arms.
I felt like an rude and offensive person, having touched his landmine.

Dawn broke; thankfully, it was a beautiful holiday.
I woke up in the afternoon and saw him beside me, using his computer while watching me.

"You have thirty minutes," he said, looking at me.

"Where to?" I rubbed my eyes.

He didn't answer, but got up and gave me a kiss. I forgot I hadn't brushed my teeth

.

"Some people are like fireplaces, giving warmth and a sense of security," he said to me, sitting on the embankment.
"And some people are like firewood, burning themselves out of desperation to light up others."

I listened to him, letting the sea breeze ruffle my bangs; it had been a long time since I'd been out to clear my head.

"You're more like a fireplace," I said. He remained silent for a long time, gazing at the sea.

"I used to be firewood," he said, looking at me.

"What transformation turned you into a fireplace?"

"Because the firewood burned out, gone."

I laughed at these seemingly unrelated words, and he smiled back at me.
Later, I realized he was smiling bitterly, so I patted his head.

"You were firewood too, how did it feel to burn out?" he asked.

"Nothing left."

"So don't you think a fireplace is better?"

"Maybe."

"You know, I'm just waiting for someone who can make me burn again," he said, looking at me.

And that look made my heart skip a beat.

—I

don't know if it was a joke or a jest, but that phrase just kept echoing in my mind all day.
I didn't even know what I was really thinking.

Was I ready?
What if I got hurt again?

When did I become so cautious in relationships, so afraid of making a mistake? I really don't understand myself.

I know he's a good person,
I know I care about him.
Last time he went out for a late-night snack alone with his female supervisor, I didn't speak to him for three days. I knew something was wrong.

I don't understand what I was hesitating about. Maybe his warmth wasn't enough to give me the courage.
Because he was a heater, not burning firewood, that's the only explanation I could think of.

Now we have an awkward relationship, when we start hugging, kissing, and making love, but it's nothing.
It feels awful.

I moved out of his room, which he expected, but he still gave me a wry smile.
Before leaving, I asked him for a cigarette and lit it, but didn't say anything.

"Arrogant, stubborn, and aloof," he smiled at me.

"I don't deny it," I said, actually feeling a little guilty.

"You want to rely on me, but you don't dare.
You want to possess me, but you don't
want me. You want to belong to me, but you hesitate," he said.

I lowered my head, speechless.

"So many women want it, yet you don't take it." He turned and opened the door; I knew he was angry.

And I just didn't know why I was so lucky.
Because I had experienced the collapse of beauty, I avoided beauty like the plague.

—

He left, or rather, I left.
Back to living alone.

And then, the perverse human mind naturally recalled the beautiful times of the past.
Those kisses, that dependence, those tender gazes.

What exactly did I shut out?
Happiness, or disaster?

I had no answer.

I couldn't find fault with him, except that he had an unbelievable number of female admirers.
But I wasn't exactly lacking either.

I never had the courage to hold his hand.
And for the first time, I realized I could be so closed off.
Arrogant, stubborn, and aloof.

—

In the same bar, in the same seat, I saw that familiar figure, and I was considering whether to go forward.
Perhaps this is our unspoken understanding; we always like to come here for a drink when we're in a bad mood.

"Hi." I sat down anyway, a breakthrough for someone as proud as me.

He saw me and smiled.

"Is this unspoken understanding?" he said with a smile, but I could see regret in his eyes.

"What's your knot?" I didn't waste any words and spoke as soon as my drink was placed in front of me.

"I don't say 'I love you.'"

"That's it?" I thought back for a moment; he hadn't said "I love you" during our time together.

"You know, so what?" He stopped smiling.

"Then do you love me?" I was surprised by my directness, and he looked at me in surprise as well.

"Then do you want to hold my hand?" He responded quickly.

We were both silent until he was about to leave.
He threw the banknote on the table and told the bartender that I would pay for his drink along with the banknote.

I was a little resistant, but I accepted it.
I got up to leave as the bartender checked the banknote for counterfeit money.

I watched him tilt his head and look at the banknote, as if he was saying something.
I asked him if there was a problem with the money.
After glancing at it, I rushed out.

He stood at the door, unsurprised, smoking a cigarette.

"Don't you have to say anything?" I pouted, a little annoyed.

He just held out his hand, looking at me.

"You don't have to say anything as punishment, so I can only hold your little finger."

"Arrogant, stubborn, and aloof," he said with a smile, just like the bright smile I'd seen on him that day.

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