The Girl I Didn’t Touch

I saw her first in the mirror between two sets of weights. She wasn’t doing anything grand, just adjusting her wrist wraps, but the light caught her in that cruel way light does when it wants to expose you to yourself. Her skin was deep and even, like evening coffee cooling in its cup. Every motion she made had purpose, a quiet authority, as though her body had long learned its own language and refused translation.

She was small, compact, gravity gathered her in, held her close. When she smiled at someone across the room, it landed softly, like the sudden warmth of sunlight through cloud. My heart, that disciplined muscle I keep under lock and verse, startled awake. Desire didn’t ask permission; it simply entered, took a seat, and began to hum.

I told myself it was harmless admiration, aesthetic, a writer’s eye at work. But there was something more, an ache that felt older than thought. It reminded me of another woman from another lifetime, the one who carved her initials into my spirit and left me searching for the right prayer to erase her. Even now, a decade later, I can recall the scent of that memory, the slow unravelling of self that loving her cost me.

Women are not gentle creatures, no matter how soft their voices sound. We are tender the way fire is tender, beautiful until you get too close. Femininity is the original chaos; nature learned her moods from us. Men are simple weather systems; you can chart their storms. But a woman’s heart, her layered grace and hidden violence, is a galaxy in motion.

I fear women, and I love them for the same reason. They see too much. They mirror the parts of me I keep chained. They can build and break in the same breath, and somehow both acts feel sacred.

So I watched this girl with the careful distance of someone observing a flame. I wanted to step closer, to speak, to ask about her playlist, her day, her story, but I also wanted to keep her perfect, untouched by my hunger. Some lights are meant only to be witnessed, never held.

My fingers ached to reach for her. My tongue, traitorous and curious, curled against the taste of a thought I could never act on.

I walked my faith quietly that evening, covered up, whispering verses and du'as that steadied my pulse. The gym emptied, music dimmed, and she left, leaving the scent of warm air and motion behind her. I stayed a little longer, lifting, breathing, reminding myself that sometimes reverence is stronger than desire.

There are women who awaken something wild in you. You don’t need to touch them to be changed. You just need to survive the moment of seeing them.