He talked numbers like it was sport. I wanted tea and a hand on my back. Performance reviews do not belong in my bed. Ever.
Tag: aftercare
I want the sentence you would actually say. Not a script you borrowed. Awkward and filthy beats cinematic and fake. I hear the difference immediately.
Giving it time is grown. Stretching a maybe for months is not depth. Some people call it patience when they just enjoy the attention buffet.
Vulnerability is treated like an ick now. I joke instead. Then I want to say it in daylight and my mouth does that stupid freeze.
No name talk. No job talk. No story about the week. Just a dark room and a warm body that does not need a biography.
Times, trains, whose house after. I look organised. I am just frightened of being left in a doorway with nowhere to put this tired face.
I do not compete with a lock screen. Eyes on me. Hands on me. If you can scroll you are not as into this, mouth.
Not romantic on paper. Still adult. A man who can say the word clinic without crumbling is doing more than the ones who just hope.
I like being asked. I like it more when you pay attention after. Consent is not paperwork. It is you noticing I am still here.
Mascara at midnight, work badge in the same bag. This city watches you switch lives in one carriage and nobody comments. That is the mercy.