Focusing on the wall, he said, “I’m autistic, and I have sensory issues. There’s a certain way to touch me, especially my face and hair.” He switched his attention to her face. “It’s probably best if I show you. Can you give me one of your hands?” He held his palm out, and Esme approached him. She didn’t know what “autistic” was, or “sensory issues,” either, but she understood he was trusting her with something important— himself. Holding her breath, she slowly lowered her hand. Closer. Closer. Until they touched.
