Chapter 2 | Entry Sixteen

I'm lying in bed, the room dark except for the glow of the moon and stars filtering through my window. The sheets are warm against my skin, and I'm staring at the ceiling, letting myself think about something I know I shouldn't.

Something impossible.

Something beautiful.

I keep imagining what it would be like to be loved by him the way I want to be loved.

Not in words. Not in careful conversations or the intense looks we've shared or the safe distance we've kept between us.

But in the way my body has been aching to be loved.

Fully. Completely. Without holding anything back.

I imagine what it would be like to receive him, just once, the way I've been dreaming about. To feel his hands on my skin. To let my body finally experience what it's been longing for, what it's been holding, what has no place to go.

I know he'd never agree.

I know it's not wise. I know it could open a door that should stay closed, could create a mess neither of us is ready for, could make walking away even harder than it already is.

But, there's something achingly beautiful about the idea.

The idea of being loved by someone so fully, so completely, that you feel it deep in your bones. That you carry it with you. That even if nothing else ever happens between you, you know, you KNOW, what it feels like to be loved by them.

Not the polite, surface version of love.

Not the careful, measured, appropriate version.

But the kind of love that reaches the deepest part of me. The part that sees him clearly and wants him anyway. The part that knows all his complexity and isn't afraid. The part that would give everything just to be held by him once the way I've imagined being held.

I close my eyes and let myself see it.

The two of us, alone. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.

No words at first. Just presence. Just the space between us finally closing.

I imagine the way he'd look at me, not with the guardedness we usually carry, but with everything open. He'd let me see it all. The wanting. The tenderness. The way he's been holding back too.

I imagine him reaching for me slowly. His hand on my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. The way I'd memorize the warmth of his skin, the way I'd close my eyes and lean into his touch like I've been waiting for it forever. The way my hand would find his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palm.

I imagine him kissing me. Not the hurried, uncertain kind of kiss. But the kind that says I see you. I know you. And I'm not afraid.

The kind of kiss that's an answer to a question neither of us has been brave enough to ask.

And then, I imagine what it would be like to feel him love me with his whole body.

The kind I'd return with everything I've been holding back, my lips soft against his, my breath mingling with his, my fingers threading through his hair.

Not as performance. Not as transaction. Not as something to get through or get past.

But as devotion.

As the most honest thing he knows how to give.

I imagine the way he'd touch me. Slowly. Intentionally. Like every touch mattered. The tingling on my skin when his fingers first make contact. The way my entire body would light up from within, like I've been waiting my whole life to be touched this way.

And I imagine the way I'd respond; not holding back, not protecting myself. My hands exploring the warmth of his skin. The way I'd whisper his name. The way I'd arch into his touch, my body answering his in the language we've never had the opportunity to speak.

I imagine the way I'd look into his eyes and let him see me, really see me, in a moment when there's no hiding. When vulnerability isn't a risk, it's a gift. And the way I'd see him too, my fingertips tracing the lines of his face like I'm memorizing something sacred.

I imagine what it would feel like to be held by him after. My head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. The weight of his arm around me, the warmth of his skin, the way it feels to be held by someone who knows you and still chooses to stay, even if just for that moment. My hand resting over his heart, my lips pressing softly against his shoulder.

I imagine lying there in the quiet, neither of us speaking, both of us knowing that something sacred just happened.

That we just loved each other in the most honest way we know how.

And maybe, maybe, that would be enough.

Maybe if I could feel that, if I could experience the fullness of being loved by him, I could finally let go.

Because I would know.

I would carry the memory of being loved that deeply, that completely. And he would carry the memory of me loving him with every ounce I have. And maybe that would complete something that's been left unfinished.

Maybe it would give me closure.

Maybe I could walk away knowing I didn't hold back, didn't protect myself, didn't leave anything unfelt.

But, I also know the truth.

I know that being loved by him that way wouldn't make it easier to let go.

Because how do you walk away from someone after you've felt them love you that fully? How do you go back to your separate lives after you've experienced the deepest parts of each other? How do you pretend it didn't change everything?

I know that one night, one moment, wouldn't be enough.

It would only make me want more.

More of his presence. More of his touch. More of the way it feels to be seen and wanted and held by someone who meets you at your depth.

And he's not offering more.

He can't. Or he won't. Or maybe it's all the same thing.

So this fantasy, this beautiful, impossible fantasy, is just that.

A fantasy.

Something I hold in the quiet of my room, in the dark, when no one's watching.

Something I let myself imagine because it's the only way I know how to honor what I feel without asking him to carry it.

But, it would be beautiful...magical.

It would be the kind of beautiful that breaks you open and puts you back together at the same time.

The kind of beautiful that you carry with you for the rest of your life, even if it only happened once.

The kind of beautiful that reminds you what you're capable of feeling, what you're capable of receiving, what you're capable of giving, what it means to be loved by someone without holding back.

And maybe that's what I'm really longing for.

Not just to love him.

But to know what it feels like to be loved by someone that fully and not be afraid.

To receive everything and not worry it's too much.

To be seen in my desire, my tenderness, my depth, and not have to apologize for any of it.

I've spent so much of my life making myself smaller. Softening my intensity. Dimming my desire. Pretending I don't feel as deeply as I do because I'm afraid of overwhelming someone.

But with him, I wouldn't have to do that.

And maybe that's the real fantasy.

Not the physical intimacy itself, but what it represents.

The freedom to be fully myself. To feel everything without fear. To be loved without restraint and know that I'm not too much, not too intense, not too deep.

To be met.

To be matched.

To be loved in return, even if just for one night.

Then slowly, my eyes open.

The fantasy fades into the distance, and I'm left in reality.

He's not offering this.

And even if he were, I don't know if it would heal me or break me.

Maybe both.

Maybe that's what real love does, it breaks you open so the light can get in, even if the breaking hurts.

But I also know this:

I can't ask him for this.

I can't reach out and say, Let me feel you love me the way I want to, just once, so I can let you go.

Because that's not fair to him.

And it's not fair to me.

Because I deserve more than one night.

I deserve someone who wants to stay.

Someone who doesn't need convincing or conditions or closure.

Someone who looks at me and says, Yes. All of you. Always.

And he doesn't want to be that person.

No matter how much I wish he were.

So I'll hold this fantasy the way I hold everything else about him.

Gently. Tenderly. With the knowledge that some things are meant to be imagined, not lived, or so I make myself believe.

Some loves are meant to be felt, not acted on.

Some desires are meant to teach us what we're capable of, not what we're supposed to have.

And maybe that's okay.

Maybe it's enough to know that I can feel this deeply. That I can want someone this much. That I'm capable of receiving love with this kind of fullness, even if it has nowhere to go yet.

Maybe the gift isn't in the having.

Maybe it's in the knowing.

I pull my soft blanket up over my shoulders and close my eyes again.

The fantasy is still there, just beneath the surface.

The image of his face. The warmth of his skin. The way it would feel to finally, finally be loved by him the way I've imagined.

But I let it rest.

I let it be what it is, a beautiful impossibility.

A love I carry but don't act on.

A desire I honor but don't chase.

And maybe that's its own kind of strength, just maybe.

...but what if...

—Still holding what's mine, still refusing less