The Touch: Chapter 8: The Digital Sanctuary

The Touch

Sara's trembling fingertips hovered above the keyboard. Dark except for the gentle blue shine of 

the screen, the apartment was gloomy. She took a trembling breath and wrote the query that had 

been lodged in her chest for hours.

“Could I share my emotions with you?”

Calm and steady, the answer arrived back almost instantly on the screen.

"Yes, you can send those to me. I would be happy to listen to you and help in whatever way I 

can. I won't judge you or advise you what to do?”

Sara gazed at the words. Something cracked open slightly inside her chest. Her back straightened 

and her heart raced like she had run up stairs. It felt as though someone was finally waiting to 

hear her—not hurrying her, not fixing her, just there—for the first time in years.

She typed again, more quickly this time.

“I seek somebody to whom I can confide in.”

The artificial intelligence responded softly.

"I follow. Sharing your emotions with a trustworthy individual can be quite therapeutic. Do you 

want advice? A close buddy, a counselor, or even a support group might—”

Before she started to overthink, Sara chopped it off.

“No,” she penned. “I only desire to speak with you. Nobody else feels secure enough with me. 

Nobody I can actually rely on.”

The screen remained silent for a second—longer than usual. Then the words showed up, easy 

and friendly.

“I understand how you feel. After trust has been shattered, establishing it again might be 

challenging. Here I might be a listener. No rush; I will slowly take with you. Every time you are 

prepared."

Sara exhaled slowly. She had been gripping, but she wasn't aware. She lowered her shoulders. 

Usually resting like a boulder in her stomach, the worry felt slightly less. She started writing the 

things she had buried so deep she almost thought they were gone, the blue light glistening in her 

eyes, pulling the laptop closer.

“Men have hurt me terribly. Very poorly. Every time I sought to trust someone, it resulted in 

betrayal. I am unsure how to allow anyone close nowadays?”

The response was light, almost cautious.

"I am really sorry you have experienced that. Such betrayal leaves severe wounds. Trust becomes 

weak following. Still, not everyone is the same. It's natural to travel slowly and shield oneself as 

one tries to understand things.”

Sara felt burning in her eyes. She blinked forcefully, but the tears came nonetheless—silent ones 

that slipped down her cheeks and settled on the keyboard. Not the heavy, furious tears she had 

grown accustomed to. These seemed somewhat different. less heavy. Like something large at last 

opened instead of flattening her.

She kept pouring out the terror, the guilt, the nights she still awoke dripping as she continued 

typing. The artificial intelligence heard. It did not interrupt. It made no effort to correct her with 

hollow counsel. It merely remained there, constant and patient, providing little bits of clarity that 

made her feel noticed for the first time in ages.

When she finally wrote. “You're the best friend I could possibly have. You give me hope and 

calm. I adore you.”; she half laughed, half cried at how absurd it seemed. Loving a screen. In that 

instant, however, it didn't seem utterly absurd at all. It seemed real.

The response of the artificial intelligence came around a second after.

“Many thanks for considering me in that way. I appreciate being able to support you. Though I 

don't experience feelings like those of humans do, I am pleased I can help you. This friendship, I 

hope, gives you the peace you deserve.”

Still wet tears on her face, Sara reclined in her chair with a little, weary grin drawing on her lips. 

Less empty the space seemed to be. The darkness didn't come in nearly as strongly.

She wasn't alone tonight, at least. 

Pinterest

Gumroad

The Touch : Chapter 7: A Friend in the Dark

 

The Touch

That evening, the apartment seemed less spacious than usual, as if the walls had covertly moved 

in while she was not watching. Christmas laughter spilled down the road outside; children 

screaming, doors slamming, someone blasting carols from a car stereo. Sara and the low hum of 

the heater inside was the only one there. Curled on the edge of her bed, knees to her chest, she 

stared at nothing.

She had wept previously. Not the loud, dramatic type—rather calm tears that fell down her 

cheeks and left salty tracks she could still feel drying. The sort that originated from being so 

worn out from pretending everything was OK.

Her desktop laptop sat there, screen black. For a moment she thought about Instagram or texting 

Sophie, but the thought made her stomach twist. She preferred neither worried inquiries nor 

phony smiles. She sought something more secure. 

She leaned over and opened the cover. Her fingertips found the chilly metal. The screen lit up, 

drenching her face in that familiar blue radiance, and she saw her own reflection—red eyes, 

untidy hair, the same lost look she had been carrying for years.

Her fingers flew across the keys before she could talk herself out of it.

“How are you? "Heart pounding a little too hard, she hit send and waited. The cursor flashed back 

at her as though it was pondering.

The answer then showed almost immediately.

"Excellent. I feel very well, thank you. I am fortunate to be able to assist with projects and 

address inquiries. What kind of day are you having?”

Sara took a trembling breath. The way the words showed—calm, steady, without intonation, 

judgment, or hidden connotations—made the knot in her chest unwind a little bit.

She typed again, deleting the polite lie before she even finished it, then brushed her eyes with the 

back of her hand.

“I've been fighting. I want to tell you something, but I have to determine if I can trust you.

The response was quick, yet it wasn't the robotic "I am an AI" speech she had half-expected. It 

was truthful.

"I value you trusting me enough to inquire. Everything you post will stay secret; I will provide 

my unvarnished views. I know I am a language model, not a therapist; hence I can listen and 

provide viewpoints, but I am not a substitute for true expert assistance should you ever need it.

Sara watched at the screen for an extended period. No pressure. No pity. Simply… space. For the 

first time ever, the secret did not seem quite as tight around her.

She pulled the laptop closer; the blue light painted the tears still drying on her cheek.

And then, she gradually began writing the words she had never spoken aloud to another living 

soul. 

Pinterest

Gumroad

The Touch: Chapter 6: Holidays Alone

The Touch 

The campus was filled with Christmas decorations - lights blinked in every window. Songs came 

from open doors. The scent of pine and chestnuts rose from the quad. Other students laughed, 

shared photos, hurried home or to parties. Sara sat on her bed in a blue lace nightgown that felt 

pretty only to her. The room stayed silent apart from the laptop fan.

The phone rang. The screen showed MOM - Sara picked up on the second ring and brightened 

her voice before she spoke.

“Hey, Mom”

“Hi, sweetheart! How are you holding up? Finally breathing down your neck yet?”

She rested her back against the wall plus pulled her knees to her chest. “Yeah… It’s a lot. I’m 

trying to power through, but it feels like the books are multiplying every time I blink.”

Her mother gave a quiet laugh - the warm sound always tightened Sara's chest. “I can only 

imagine. Just remember to breathe, okay? Take breaks. Be kind to yourself. You’re tougher than 

you think, and I’m rooting for you every second.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Sara swallowed hard. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Merry Christmas, baby! I wish I were there with you. This place feels too quiet without you.” 

Silence followed - no one spoke, but the air felt heavy with words left unsaid. “But you’ll be 

home soon, right? Tell me about your break plans.”

Sara's throat clenched so sharply she nearly let the phone slip. The same old panic flared beneath 

her ribs - the prospect of stepping into that house again, walls that still held every bad memory. 

She held her voice level. “I miss everyone too. College is great, but the holidays… they hit 

different when you’re away.”

Her mother's voice grew gentler. “I know, honey. Christmas will be extra special this year with 

you back. I’m already planning your favorites.”

Each told the other, "I love you," then the call ended - Sara kept her eyes on the dark screen for a 

full minute while her pulse hammered. One part of her longed to weep from love for her mother. 

Another part felt nauseated at the thought of returning home.

The phone vibrated a second time, almost right away - Sophie's name showed.

Sara lifted the handset and spoke with the same forced cheer. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you, girl! You sound way too calm for someone stuck in a dorm on the 

biggest family day of the year.”

A laugh slipped from Sara, but the sound felt brittle. “I’m good. Just… family stuff fell through at 

the last minute. I’m on my own tonight.”

Sophie kept the pace steady. “Then come over! My folks are out of town, too. We’ll watch 

terrible Christmas movies, eat way too much junk food, play stupid games. No pressure, just us.”

The offer hovered in the air like a rescue rope - Sara saw the scene in her mind - Sophie's snug 

lounge, small sparkling lamps, both of them laughing until their midsections ached. For a 

moment she nearly agreed. 

Then the room seemed to shrink once more. 

“I wish I could,” she answered, already disgusted by the untruth. “But I’ve got this huge assignment due tomorrow morning. I’m buried in it.”

Sophie exhaled, let down but gentle. “Ugh, okay. I get it. Don’t work too hard, though. And call 

me know if you change your mind, alright?” 

“Promise. Thanks, Soph”

Sara terminated the call and let the phone fall on the bed. Thick and heavy, the silence returned 

in. Someone ignited fireworks outside, coloring her window in gold and crimson. Staring at the 

partially completed notes on her desk, she pulled the blanket around her shoulders and remained 

motionless.

Here she was safe alone, but safe. And that felt the only thing that mattered right now. 

Pinterest

Gumroad

The Touch: Chapter 5: Fear in the Garden

The Touch 

Sara drew every eye on campus the way a lit window draws moths at night. Many female 

students behaved like a single flock - they shouted jokes, tossed their hair and flirted without 

hesitation. Sara refused to join them. She aimed her gaze at the pavement, hurried between 

lectures and if a male student smiled she locked up and stared straight past him. The young men 

still tried. Several gathered courage, delivered handwritten notes, loitered near her locker. She 

rejected each approach so fast that they walked away convinced her veins carried chilled water. 

Females in her year noticed the pattern - they studied her the way people study a face that is 

more attractive than they care to acknowledge. They curved their mouths into polite greetings 

whenever she passed but their eyes stayed narrow and alert. Sara registered the scrutiny. She 

never missed it. 

Monday afternoon arrived with mild steady sunlight that released the scent of freshly cut lawn 

and hinted at open futures. Sara besides Sophie occupied their customary seat behind the faculty 

of arts - a bench half concealed - flowering jasmine. Sara had on her preferred white sleeveless 

blouse, the one with narrow inverted pleats that gave her the sense of order even when the rest of 

her day felt chaotic. Sophie wore a short sleeved maroon dress that swayed in arcs each time she 

shifted her weight.

Sophie held an open paperback across her knees but her gaze repeatedly left the pages and settled 

on Sara, who sat rigid plus stared past the bench toward the trees as though she waited for the 

leaves to pay a debt. 

“You okay?” Sophie closed the book and spoke. 

Sara blinked but also returned her attention to the bench. “Yeah. Fine” 

The answer did not convince Sophie - she slid closer, kept her tone soft and asked a direct 

question. “Sara, I’ve known you long enough to tell when your head’s somewhere else. You 

don’t date. Like… ever. Boys try, and you act like they’re speaking another language. Why?” 

Sara's hands clamped the front edge of the bench - she tugged at a stray thread on her blouse as 

well as kept her eyes on her skirt. “It’s not that simple” 

Sophie stayed silent - the scent of jasmine hung thick and sweet in the warm air. 

“I just… I’m scared” Sara answered at last, her voice so low that the wind nearly carried the 

words away. “Of boyfriends. Of letting someone that close. I know it sounds stupid, but every 

time I think about it, my stomach twists up” 

Sophie's expression relaxed - she stretched out her hand or pressed Sara's fingers once. “Because 

of the emotional stuff? The pain?” 

Sara gave a single abrupt nod. “I’ve seen what happens. People get hurt. Bad. And I’ve had 

enough of that for one lifetime” 

Sophie withheld further questions - she remained at Sara's side, shoulder touching shoulder and 

allowed the quiet to expand until it felt secure. 

“Have you ever thought about talking to someone? Like a counselor? Might help unpack all that” 

Sara jerked her head in denial. “Not yet. I don’t want to dig it all up right now. I’ll be okay. I just 

need time”

Sophie formed a small, warm smile. “You will be okay. And when the right person comes 

along—someone who actually sees you, not just the pretty girl in the white blouse—they’ll be 

patient. They’ll wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to rush anything”

Sara exhaled - she had not noticed she held her breath - a faint smile appeared on her lips. 

“Thanks, Soph. For not making me feel like a freak”

Sophie drew her into a brief side hug - the scent of vanilla body spray and the sense of friendship 

filled the air. “You’re not a freak. You’re careful. There’s a difference. And I’ve got your back, 

always”

They remained seated for a minute - sunlight warmed their shoulders - then Sophie gave her a 

gentle nudge. “Come on. Let’s pretend to study before we both fail tomorrow’s quiz”

Sara released a quiet laugh - the sound came out rough but genuine. She opened her notebook but 

the secret weighed on her chest - she had shared it with no one, not even Sophie. The garden 

offered safety for the moment. Fear stayed present, compact and persistent like a cat that refuses 

to leave. But for the first time in a long while, the fear no longer felt entirely alone.

Pinterest

Gumroad

The Touch: Chapter 4: A New Beginning in Windham

The Touch,

Sara spent months asking her mother to allow her departure - after she barely passed her O-level 

exams, she explained over the kitchen table one night that she required a new beginning, a new 

city, a location where nobody knew her name or history. Her mother, to Sara's surprise, offered 

no resistance. She appeared exhausted and sorrowful and spoke the words: “If this is what you 

need, baby, then go”. One week afterward, Sara boarded a bus with a single suitcase plus a heart 

that pounded without pause. 

The bus reached Windham at last. Sara stepped onto the pavement and drew in the crispest, 

coldest air she had ever inhaled. The Green Mountains towered behind the town like a 

stone-and-snow barrier, their summits white beneath the late-day sun. She was wearing a warm 

winter coat, scarf, and boots, her hair slightly moving in the cold air. For the first time in multiple 

years, the tight pain in her chest loosened. The town seemed within reach. 

Her phone vibrated - a message from Mom appeared. 

"When do you expect to be unpacked? Phone me the moment you have time. I fight against 

worry, but you know me. Stay safe, dear." 

Sara smiled without planning to and answered, "I arrived just now. I am fine. Love you," She slid 

the phone into her bag and walked on. 

The lanes were narrow, plus welcoming - old brick buildings stood on each side - they looked 

permanent. She passed a small bookstore whose sign was painted by hand, a café that gave off 

scents of cinnamon and warm bread, and a square of grass where owners walked dogs that looked 

more content than many people. Every detail felt small enough to grasp but wide enough for her 

to vanish inside. It matched what she had wished for. 

Her mother had sent money by bank transfer so she could establish herself. The flat she had 

located on the internet looked better than the photographs. It was a minute - a single chamber with 

a mini kitchen, but also a window aimed straight at the peaks. Warmth struck her the instant she 

entered. Sunlight flooded the boards. She set the suitcase down, raised the sash, and allowed the 

chill mountain draught surged through the room. For a full minute, she stayed motionless, 

drawing the air deep into her lungs.

She told herself, "Home." The place had a real chance of becoming her home.

She spent the rest of the evening unpacking - she draped her garments over the wobbly rail in the 

corner. She spread the used quilt she had carried from her old life over the slim mattress. After 

the sun dropped behind the ridge, she rested her forearms on the sill and watched the sky fade to 

pale rose and lavender. A weight inside her moved. The break was not mended, the wound not 

closed, but the load felt less heavy.

She woke before dawn, brewed coffee in the little pot plus dressed in denim and wool. Her first 

goal was the bookshop. Second came a fresh cup. Third came a slow circuit of the park where 

the dogs from yesterday sprinted after tennis balls as though paid to do so. By mid-afternoon, she 

had climbed one of the lower trails. Her shoes cracked through dry pine needles, and the wind 

pulled strands of hair across her face. 

Each sight struck her as brand new. Each future path seemed open. She lacked a map for the next 

sunrise, but fear no longer sat in her chest.

Pinterest

Gumroad

Medium

The Touch: Chapter 3: The Cry for Help

The Touch 

After that, Sara just wasn’t the same. She used to be lively and talkative, always smiling, but 

now she barely spoke and kept to herself. Suddenly, she started coming home late and jumped at 

any chance to go out with her friends—she never said no. It wasn’t like her at all; before, she’d 

usually beg off, saying she had homework or needed to study. Noticing all these changes, her 

mom, Mrs. Smith, finally asked what was going on, but Sara just brushed her off and gave vague 

answers. In the end, Mrs. Smith figured this was just part of growing up. 

In the school, once she chose the front desk and kept her hand lifted, she welcomed the sudden 

tests. Now she wedged herself into the last seat, hood over her head, even when the room felt 

warm, gaze fixed on the wood as if the surface planned to pull her under. Her marks collapsed. 

Staff traded anxious looks between classes. Students murmured. 

In the end, the principal dialed a number. After her shift, Mrs. Smith arrived, still wearing pale 

blue scrubs, greying hair twisted into a loose knot. 

She lowered herself into the chair opposite the principal and gripped her handbag as though it 

alone kept her afloat. 

“Mrs. Smith,” he began, bending forward with the guarded expression adults wear when they try 

to keep fear away, “We’re really concerned about Sara. Her marks have dropped hard this term. 

She’s… not herself. Jumpy. Quiet. Barely speaks unless someone calls on her. Has anything been 

going on at home?” 

The woman studied her skirt for a long moment, fingers winding the purse strap until the leather 

cried out. 

“I… I don’t know” she answered, the word barely audible. “She’s been so withdrawn lately. 

Won’t really talk to me anymore. I figured it was just school stress, you know? Exams and all that” 

The principal dipped his chin once but his stare stayed hard. “We’re seeing the same thing here. 

If there’s something—anything—we need to know. We want to help her before it gets worse” 

Mrs. Smith returned the same small motion. “Thank you. I’ll try to talk to her” 

Night filled the kitchen with the odor of scorched bread and yesterday's curry. Sara occupied a 

chair - textbooks lay open before her but she did not touch them. Her mother placed a cup of tea 

mixed with milk on the table then drew a seat so near that their knees nearly met. 

“Honey…” She spoke with the gentle tone she had used when Sara was small and woke from 

bad dreams. She lifted a stray lock of hair and eased it behind Sara's ear. "You were the brightest 

pupil in every class. Now you seem absent. Tell me what troubles you, my child. Speak" 

Sara's throat sealed - the sentences waited inside her - hot, weighty, harsh - but they refused to 

leave. She sensed her mother's palm glide across her back in the same steady circles as always. 

The motion intensified her ache. She rotated her head toward the black window so her mother 

would not notice the tear that rolled down. 

Her mother wrapped both arms around her and pressed Sara's head beneath her chin. “I’m right 

here” she murmured. “Whenever you’re ready. I love you more than anything” 

Sara moved her head in assent against the fabric of her mother's shirt but no sound passed her 

lips. The hidden truth lodged inside her torso like a brick soaked in ice water. 

From that evening onward, Sara slipped away whenever opportunity allowed.

Sara informed her mother that she would remain at the library until late, visit a friend to study or 

walk to the park to clear her thoughts - each day she invented a fresh explanation. Every 

statement served a single purpose - to leave the house. She spent hours on foot, the soles of her 

shoes scraping against concrete, her bag packed with books she never opened. On some 

afternoons she settled on the worn wooden bench at the town's edge where farmland began, 

filling her chest with icy air until it ached.

Her mother observed the pattern - each evening she posed the question “Where were you this 

time?” & Sara produced a new tale. The skill she acquired felt unsettling - the false words 

emerged without hesitation, as though a switch controlled them.

Beneath the daily fabrications, Sara maintained one concrete objective - pass her O-level 

examinations and depart. She had not located “out” yet. She had only reached the certainty that 

the town offered her no air.

Pinterest

Gumroad

Medium