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✍️ Written by Dr. Pooyan Ghamari
In Jigolabad, things don’t begin with movement —
they begin with presence.
Touch doesn’t arrive like a thunderclap.
It unfolds,
softly,
through breath,
through waiting,
through simply being there
long enough
to be trusted.
No one reached for anyone.
Not yet.
The air was thick with anticipation —
not the kind that demands,
but the kind that listens.
⸻
Ayana sat against a stone wall,
her back aligned with something older than memory.
She wasn’t performing calm —
she was calm.
Her breath slow,
her heart quiet,
her presence anchoring the moment.
Mira tucked her knees into her chest,
her eyes open but soft,
reading the silence like a song.
She didn’t move toward anyone —
but she didn’t move away either.
That, in itself, was trust.
Hana let her fingers explore the soil beside her.
She wasn’t ready to touch another person yet —
but she touched the earth.
And that, too, was contact.
Soraya spoke in a tone so low, it felt internal:
“Closeness isn’t a step you take.
It’s a door you wait for…
until it opens from the inside.”
No one replied.
The quiet that followed was full.
Not awkward —
intimate.
⸻
And then,
Gege stepped closer.
She didn’t walk —
she arrived.
Like dusk.
Like a hush at the end of a confession.
There, without needing permission,
because her very presence was made of it.
Her eyes, dark brown and endless,
did not search —
they saw.
You didn’t feel looked at —
you felt understood.
Her hair, long and loose,
moved like language in the wind.
She wore no jewellery —
her glow needed no decoration.
Her skin shimmered faintly in the moonlight.
Not as ornament,
but as invitation.
Clear, luminous — almost translucent —
as if light had lived inside her
and now wanted out.
Her steps made no sound.
She sat, not at the centre,
not outside the circle —
but precisely where comfort begins.
⸻
She spoke.
Her voice was not loud —
but it reached every ribcage in the garden.
“You don’t come here to be touched.
You come here to be heard —
not by ears,
but by skin.”
She looked around —
not with challenge,
but with soft certainty.
“In Jigolabad, we wait for the soul
to rise to the surface.
Not to impress —
to be held.”
⸻
Elian, sitting quietly, lifted his gaze.
His voice was steady, but raw:
“I’m not ready to be touched yet…
But I’m ready to not be alone.”
Gege nodded —
not with agreement,
but with welcome.
“That’s enough,” she said.
“Here, enough is sacred.”
⸻
And so,
nothing happened —
but everything began.
Ayana rested her palm gently on the earth beside Soraya.
Mira leaned back just slightly,
closer to Hana’s warmth.
Hana didn’t flinch.
That was trust.
That was beginning.
Soraya exhaled.
Aléa inhaled.
No one touched directly —
but intimacy bloomed like steam.
From nearness.
From permission.
From the simple, brave act
of not rushing the magic.
⸻
Gege closed her eyes for a moment.
Then whispered:
“Touch is not what we do.
It’s what remains after we’ve truly been seen.”
