The First Hug

I don’t remember
what I was wearing,
only that everything felt
too heavy for a ten-year-old
to carry.

The world had been quiet
in all the wrong places —
no voices soft enough,
no arms open long enough
to stay.

I was alone on that bench,
eyes red,
trying not to be seen.

But he saw me.
Not just the crying —
but me.
Like he knew something
was breaking
that shouldn’t have been.

He didn’t ask.
Didn’t speak.
He just sat down
and opened his arms.

And in that hug —
the first in years —
something returned.
Not fixed.
But softened.
And seen.

Now,
he is my best friend.
But that was the moment
we met —
not in words,
but in something softer.
Something stronger.
Kindness.