The Feed

There’s a kind of love that doesn’t grip or hover. It just stays — softly, quietly — like a pinky-hold in a crowded street. Not loud like a hug, not dramatic, but steady. This piece reflects on the beauty of gentle presence — love that doesn’t cling, but still lingers. It exists in siblings, parents, partners, friends — in the small ways they say “I’m here” without words. A soft kind of holding on, in a world that often forgets how.

What if books had age limits? Not the kind that guard doors and say, “You’re not old enough to read this.” But the kind that leave the door slightly open and whisper,“ Come back when you’ve lived a little more. I’ll still be here.”