I’m in such a hurry that I bump into someone at the end of the hallway. It’s Ryan. He steadies me with his hands on my shoulders. “You okay?” His gentle voice makes me want to cry but I hold on. “Yeah. Sorry. I should stop doing that to you.” Chuckling, he says, “I don’t mind.” “How are you?” I ask, studying his handsome face. He has always made me feel safe. Always. And now that I look at him, I realize that maybe I wasn’t made for safe. Safe does nothing for me. I wasn’t made to be handled with gentle fingers and soft touches. Maybe I was made for rough strokes, pulling hands and harsh
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