The lack of touch rarely happens all at once.
He settles in discreetly.

In the beginning, there are still the gestures.

A hand placed on a thigh in the car.
An arm around the shoulders.
A caress of the hair.

Then fatigue arrives.
The children are arriving.
Responsibilities are coming.
Worries are coming.
And the gestures disappear one after another.

Without anyone actually deciding to delete them.

One evening, while watching a series, she realised she couldn't remember the last time he had simply stroked her face.

Not to get something.
Not to initiate a sexual relationship.
Just for the pleasure of touching her.

This thought surprises her.
She says nothing.
But something tightens inside.

A few days later, it's him who feels an emptiness.

He sits down next to her on the sofa.
He would like to get closer.
To put one's arm around one's shoulders.

Then he hesitates.
He no longer knows if this gesture will be well received.
So he stays there.
A few centimetres.

And those few centimetres sometimes seem like several kilometres.

This is how distance grows.
Rarely in major crises.

Often in the accumulation of thousands of small gestures that no longer exist.

Yet, the body continues to remember.
The body remembers the comfort of a hand.
From the warmth of a presence.
Of the feeling of being expected.
To be welcomed.
To be desired.

That's precisely why touch has such power.

Because it awakens something that existed before words.
Before the conflicts.
Before customs.
Even before the couple's story.