Returning to the Body
There are seasons when the body goes quiet. You go about your life, certain that intimacy is something you’ve put aside, for a while, or maybe forever. You tell yourself you don’t miss it, that you’re fine without the press of someone else’s skin. And maybe you believe it. Until the silence breaks.
And there are seasons when the body is anything but quiet. When it gets so used it turns numb, when touch becomes repetition, when pleasure dulls from being demanded too often. Sometimes it even strays into abuse, not the dramatic kind that leaves scars, but the kind that leaves you emptied out, like you gave more than you meant to and got less than you needed. Those nights don’t make you feel desired, they make you feel disposable. You learn to confuse activity with intimacy, climax with closeness. And for a while, you let yourself believe that is enough.
But then comes the in-between. The long pause where silence sets in, not out of choice but out of circumstance, where months stretch into a rhythm of self-sufficiency. You learn to live without. You learn to breathe in the absence of warmth. And you start telling yourself you have outgrown it: that sex, intimacy, desire — these are luxuries, distractions, things for other people. You pride yourself on the discipline of distance. You act as if you don’t need it.
Still, the body remembers. It holds its own calendar, its own language, its own ache. And when the silence finally breaks, it is not the body that surprises you. It is the heart.
I wasn’t searching for meaning that night. If anything, I told myself it would be simple: a few hours, a release, nothing to remember the next morning. I didn’t walk in looking for connection. I didn’t think I wanted it. But then there was a laugh, and a story told too casually, and a glance that lasted just a breath too long. That was all it took. The body I had kept quiet, the one I had used and ignored in equal measure, came back to life.
And as much as I wanted to roll my eyes at myself, to insist it wasn’t anything, I knew I couldn’t. Not this time.
- Returning to the Body
- The Pause Before the Return
- When Conversation Became Chemistry
- The First Kiss, The First Spark
- When Play Turned Into Hunger
- The Afterglow That Wouldn’t Let Me Sleep
- The Tug of War Inside Me
- The Reflection I Couldn’t Escape
The Pause Before the Return
Silence is not always peaceful. Sometimes it is survival. Sometimes it is just the absence of choice.
I did not step away from intimacy with pride or intention. I slipped out of it because I was already worn down. Before the silence, there were too many nights that blurred together: bodies pressed against mine, words exchanged in dim rooms, skin touching skin without anyone really touching me. I gave myself over to people who wanted release, not recognition. And the worst part is that I let them.
At first, I told myself it was enough. That the wanting, any kind of wanting, counted for something. That climax could pass for closeness. That the warmth of a body, even a careless one, was better than lying awake in a room with only my own heartbeat. But it was a lie I forced myself to swallow. Because afterward, in the quiet, I never felt full. I only felt used.
There were times I said yes when I wanted to say no, because no felt heavier. There were moments when the only way to end the asking was to surrender. There were faces I do not even remember, except for the way my chest felt afterward, as if I had been scraped raw from the inside out. They touched my body, but none of them ever touched me.
The aftermath was always the same: I would lie there, waiting for the sound of the door closing, waiting for the emptiness to settle back in. I would reach for myself, sometimes, out of habit, as if finishing the act could make me feel less hollow. It never worked. The body came, but the heart did not. And I learned, over and over again, that release without recognition leaves you emptier than silence ever could.
So when the real silence came, it was almost a relief. No more pretending, no more being looked at without being seen. No more giving myself away just to prove I existed. In the absence, I found a kind of strength. Or at least, I thought I did. I told myself I was done. I told myself intimacy was a distraction, a luxury I did not need. And for a while, I believed it.
But silence is not neutral. It is not clean. It starts sharp, like a cleanse, stripping everything away. Then it lingers until it becomes its own weight. It makes you forget. You forget how a laugh feels when it shakes the space between you and another person. You forget the heat of being held, not out of greed but out of care. You forget what it is like to be kissed in a way that is not hurried, but patient, playful, steady.
I wanted to believe I had outgrown all of it. That the ache in me had dried up. That I had buried the hunger deep enough that it would never crawl back to the surface. But the truth is, the body does not forget. It keeps its own calendar, it hides its own memories, and it waits.
So when the pause finally ended, it did not announce itself with fanfare. It slipped in quietly, disguised as something ordinary. A laugh I did not expect. A conversation that stretched until I lost track of time. A glance that lingered just a little too long. That was all it took. The silence cracked. The hunger came rushing back.
And I realized, with shame and with relief, that I had not outgrown intimacy at all. I had only abandoned myself to the wrong versions of it, until I forgot what it was supposed to feel like.
When Conversation Became Chemistry
I expected nothing more than noise. A few words tossed back and forth, the kind of chatter that keeps the air from feeling heavy before bodies do what they came to do. That was the script I knew. That was what I braced myself for.
But then we started talking. Not the hollow talk I had gotten used to, not the recycled lines or forced charm. Real talking. He asked, and I answered. I asked, and he answered back. Simple, ordinary. But the hours kept slipping through while the words kept stacking up, and suddenly the script I thought I knew dissolved.
At first, I listened out of habit. It was easier to nod along, to play the role of the attentive one. But somewhere in the middle, something shifted. His words weren’t filling space anymore. They were holding me. His stories weren’t just noise. They were openings. And I caught myself leaning in, not because I was supposed to, but because I wanted to.
Then it went deeper. He began talking about his family, his past relationships, even the failures and mistakes that he said so plainly I almost forgot we were supposed to be strangers. And then, almost casually, he mentioned his love of art. The way he lit up when he spoke about it was different, not rehearsed, not packaged to impress. It was raw and unfiltered, like this was a piece of himself he didn’t often bring out.
Maybe I was just a mirror that night. Maybe the way I listened, quietly, intently, without rushing him, gave him the room to hear himself. Or maybe he had been waiting for someone, anyone, to ask and stay long enough to care about the answer.
But then again, maybe this is just how he is. Maybe he opens up like this with everyone. Maybe his love for art, his stories about family, his confessions about the past — maybe they weren’t a gift meant for me at all. Maybe I just happened to be sitting there when he felt like talking.
That’s the thing, though. For every thought that insisted it was ordinary, another feeling pulled back harder. It didn’t feel ordinary. Not in the way his voice slowed when he shared something heavier. Not in the way he laughed, as if we were already in on the same joke. Not in the way time kept running without either of us noticing.
There were moments when I stopped registering what he was even saying, because I was too caught up in the way he said it. The sound of his voice softened into background, and all I could see was him. It was ridiculous, really. I could hear my own mind mocking me for it. But there I was, smiling when I should have stayed neutral, laughing too easily, my chest warming like I had forgotten it could.
I had spent so long convincing myself intimacy was about the body, that all it took was skin and release. Yet here I was, pulled in by words. Three hours of them. Three hours of being reminded that presence can unfold slowly, without touch, and still make the air between two people feel charged. And the wildest part? It wasn’t just three hours. It was three fucking hours. And neither of us even noticed. Time just… folded. It slipped out from under us while we were too busy listening, talking, laughing.
I had forgotten what that was like. Forgotten what it meant for someone’s attention to linger without asking for anything back. Forgotten how dangerous it feels when closeness sneaks in through the side door, disguised as conversation.
By the time I realized, I wasn’t bracing anymore. I wasn’t waiting for the transaction to start. I was just there, caught in the middle of his laugh, wondering when exactly the silence in me had cracked open.
The First Kiss, The First Spark
It started with something small. I reached out first, pulling him closer under the excuse that he was cold. My body runs warm, and in that moment, it felt natural to let him borrow that heat. I told myself it was nothing more than that, but even I could hear the lie. My chest was already buzzing.
Then he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t a French kiss, not heavy or demanding. Just a soft, almost playful peck. Quick, but not careless. Almost like he was testing the air, asking if it was allowed. There was even a trace of shyness in it, like he wasn’t sure if he could, even though he clearly wanted to. And then, oh God, he giggled quietly right after, a small, almost nervous laugh that slipped out before he could stop it.
And that smile. It wasn’t polished, not the kind of grin people put on for effect. It was crooked, soft, a little shy, like he was surprised at himself. His lips curled slow, his eyes narrowing in that way people do when they’re embarrassed and delighted all at once. It hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for, like my chest had been set alight from the inside. And what did I do? I smiled back. Instantly. Automatically. Like my body had been waiting for this cue all along.
That was when the air between us shifted. The first kiss opened the door, and then more followed, each one a little slower, a little longer, like we were daring ourselves to linger just a beat more. The pace wasn’t rushed. It built in layers, from soft brush to firmer press, from quick touches to drawn-out pauses that made me ache.
And God, it was ridiculous. With every kiss, I found myself laughing harder, not because anything was funny, but because it felt too good to contain. Like my body didn’t know what else to do but giggle in the middle of being undone. And he kept smiling too, that same crooked, quiet, shy-smug smile that made it impossible to look away.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I panicked. Wait, was he shy because this meant something, or is he just always like that? Did I imagine the hesitation? Am I reading too much into one playful kiss? I tried to reason with myself, tried to label it ordinary, but the truth is it didn’t feel ordinary. Not the way time blurred again, not the way every kiss made me lean in closer without thinking.
It had been so long since intimacy had felt like this, lighter than air, heavier than silence. His lips brushing mine again and again made everything dissolve: the room, the past, the silence I thought I had mastered. It was just us, ridiculous and smiling, caught somewhere between play and hunger.
When Play Turned Into Hunger
I swear I didn’t see it coming. One moment we were still laughing, still kissing like it was all lightness and play, and then suddenly the air changed. It was subtle, like a string being pulled tighter in the background, but I felt it. My chest tightened, my pulse stumbled, and I remember thinking, Wait, are we really going there now? Am I ready for this?
Because I wasn’t supposed to feel this much. I wasn’t supposed to be panicking, giggling, aching, all at once. I thought I had mastered nights like these, thought I knew the script by heart. But when he pressed closer, when his kisses grew slower and heavier, when his hands lingered longer than they needed to, my body stopped pretending.
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t flip me over, didn’t bark orders, didn’t treat me like I was just another scene in a reel he had memorized. He stayed where we were, close, almost tender, like every shift in movement was another question he was silently asking: Is this okay? Do you want this too?
And then hunger took over, but it wasn’t the kind I remembered. It wasn’t frantic or careless. It was steady, almost reverent, the kind of hunger that feels like it has been waiting for this exact moment. His thrusts were slow, deliberate, like he wanted every one of them to be remembered. I felt owned, yes, but not consumed. It was a paradox I still can’t untangle: gentle and overwhelming, heavy and careful, playful and serious.
I panicked in my own head. Why does this feel different? Why does it feel like more than sex? Why am I letting myself sink into this, when I swore I wouldn’t? My body answered for me before my mind could. I pulled him closer, hugged him tighter, let him rest his weight on me even as my chest screamed with relief and terror.
There were little moments inside the bigger moment that I keep replaying. The way he smiled in the middle of it, like he was too full to contain it. The way he giggled softly even as he pressed deeper into me. The way he rested, exhausted, but still kept moving slowly, as if he couldn’t stop wanting me even when he had already given everything he had. And the way I kissed his forehead, almost instinctively, like it was the only way to tell him without words that he was safe with me too.
That forehead kiss undid me. I don’t know if he noticed, but I felt him relax into it, as if something heavy had slipped off his shoulders for just a moment. And I panicked again. Why does this feel like care? Why does this feel like something we shouldn’t be sharing in a night like this?
But I didn’t stop him. I didn’t pull away. I stayed there, holding him, letting myself be held, too. And even now, I don’t know if it was love, or lust, or loneliness pretending to be either one. All I know is that in that room, in that hour, it felt like the silence in me had finally broken wide open.
The Afterglow That Wouldn’t Let Me Sleep
Afterward, he collapsed beside me, still warm, still catching his breath. My body should have been wrecked. I should have felt the soreness, the strain, the ache in my muscles. But I didn’t. What I felt was something stranger, something almost holy. It was as if my body had been worshiped, not used. I sank into the bed as if the mattress itself was holding me up, as if the night had left me fused to it.
I thought exhaustion would claim me. Instead, insomnia did. My veins buzzed with leftover coffee and cigarette smoke, a strange jitter beneath the stillness. I was both heavy and restless. My body wanted to collapse, but my mind refused to loosen its grip.
I kept telling myself I wanted sleep, that if I could just drift under, I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. That was my way of fighting back against the flood, trying to quiet the confusion before it swallowed me whole. If I slept, maybe I could convince myself it was nothing more than a moment. But I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, the night replayed itself, sharper than before.
It was all over me — his smell clinging to my skin, the softness of the fabric where we had tangled together, the press of his weight still echoing across my chest. The room was chilled from the aircon, but I felt warm everywhere. Like I was carrying him still, even though he had already slipped into sleep beside me.
And then hunger hit me, sharp and unexpected. Not the hollow hunger I used to feel after being used, the kind you try to fill with another body or another climax. This was deeper, heavier. It wasn’t just in my stomach. It was in my chest, my lungs, my throat. A hunger that made me restless and still at the same time, like I was starving for something I couldn’t even name.
I wanted to believe it was enough to just lie there, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop feeling. Couldn’t stop panicking. What the hell was that? Why did it feel so different? What happens now? The silence was supposed to soothe me, but instead it roared.
I had always feared emptiness after sex. That was the familiar script: release followed by hollowness. But this time the fear was different. It wasn’t emptiness I feared. It was the opposite. I was scared of how full I felt. Scared that this fullness had no place to go, no guarantee it would return, no way of being explained without sounding foolish.
So I lay there, wide awake, embedded in the sheets, too full to move, too restless to sleep. My chest throbbed with panic and something softer, something I didn’t dare name. It wasn’t afterglow. It was aftershock. And somewhere, through the haze, I caught myself hoping the night wasn’t ending at all. That maybe there was still one more page waiting to be written.
The Tug of War Inside Me
Morning never really came. Or maybe it did, and I was too tangled in myself to notice. The day shifted from dark to dim, but I was still lying there, awake, restless, watching the ceiling as if it could answer me.
Part of me kept insisting I was being ridiculous. That it was just one night. That people kiss, laugh, fuck, and move on all the time. That he probably didn’t think twice about it. I told myself that, over and over again, like a mantra. This is nothing. It has to be nothing.
But another part of me kept pulling harder. What if it wasn’t nothing? What if those hours meant something more, even if I couldn’t name it yet? What if the way he smiled mid-kiss wasn’t habit but choice? What if the way he giggled afterward wasn’t politeness but sincerity? What if I wasn’t just imagining the way his body relaxed under my touch, as if he had been waiting to feel safe?
I kept flipping between the two voices, back and forth, like a pendulum that refused to stop swinging. It was just sex. No, it was more. Stop being foolish. But what if foolishness is the point? Every thought contradicted the last, and none of them brought me closer to calm.
By the time he started gathering his things, I was already standing in front of him. I tried to look casual, but I was holding my breath. He didn’t just leave. He leaned in again, kissed me once, then again, then again — long, slow kisses that made the whole night replay itself in miniature. And when he finally pulled back, he giggled. The same soft, almost shy sound from the very first kiss. A quiet echo, as if the night wanted to remind me how it began before it ended.
I showed him the way out, each step feeling heavier than it should have. Then, as he stepped outside the house, he turned (not-so) slightly, looked at me, and said it. Three words. With a big wave of his hand. Simple, casual, unforced, but heavier than they had any right to be.
“See you soon.”
The door closed, and I should have let it end there. But I didn’t. I went up to the terrace, cigarette already between my fingers, clinging to the habit as if it could ground me. And that was when I saw him again. He was walking toward his ride, the morning light just brushing against him, when he looked back. Not rushed, not accidental. He looked back. His eyes lifted toward where I stood above, as if he knew I’d be there, watching.
It was only a second, but it froze everything. The noise of the traffic near my street, the smoke, the buzz of my own panic. Just him, looking back. That single glance cut deeper than the three words had. It was a silent confirmation, or maybe just another illusion I wanted too much to believe. But I held onto it anyway.
The Reflection I Couldn’t Escape
I kept replaying it in my head, even after he was gone. The kisses, the giggle, the way he said three words so easily, the way he looked back as if it mattered. It shouldn’t have been this heavy, but it was. My chest wouldn’t let it go.
And that’s what terrified me. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. Not with him. Not with me feeling like I had been pulled into the middle of some romance movie, one of those scenes that feels scripted down to the smallest detail, except it wasn’t scripted at all. It was real, and it happened to me.
It had the same weight as those moments on screen when everything slows down — when the kiss isn’t just a kiss but a revelation, when laughter between two people feels like the world tilting back into balance. I thought of Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love, the way she looked when she finally allowed herself to be touched, not just by a man, but by life again. There was a fullness in her eyes, a softness that said: I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again, but here it is. That was me, except I was panicking. Panicking because I knew it wasn’t supposed to be cinematic. And yet it was.
The night had been ordinary in its ingredients: two people, a room, kisses, skin, the weight of bodies. And yet, somehow, it became extraordinary. The way he smiled mid-kiss, the giggle he let slip like a secret, the way time bent until hours disappeared — all of it felt like it belonged to a story I didn’t realize I was in. If someone had been filming, the scene would have looked simple. But if someone had been watching, they would have seen the way my chest lifted like it had been resuscitated.
It scared me because it felt too much like hope. And I wasn’t ready for hope.
Still, no matter how many times I tried to drag myself back to reason, one moment kept replaying louder than all the others. Him, standing in the doorway, looking back, saying it. Three words. Simple, casual, tossed out like nothing. But not nothing. Never nothing.
See you soon.
And now I am left here, trying to write it all down, trying to give language to something that doesn’t want to be tamed. I am caught between wanting to laugh at myself for being so carried away and wanting to cry because I know how rare it is to feel this much. I want to dismiss it as a blip, a fever dream, a trick of loneliness, and yet my body refuses. It still hums with the memory.
Maybe this will mean nothing in the long run. Maybe the silence will return, heavier than before. Or maybe it was a reminder — that intimacy is not gone, that it can arrive uninvited, that it can undo me in ways I had already given up on.
And maybe, just maybe, those three words weren’t empty. Maybe they will echo forward, pulling me back into his orbit sooner than I expect. I don’t know what happens next. But I want to believe that see you soon was not an ending at all, but the beginning of something I’m still too afraid to name.
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