Chapter 3 | Entry Twenty-Five

"The body remembers what the mind tries to forget, every touch, every breath, every moment skin met skin."

The restlessness of being alone settled, eventually. But what it left behind wasn't peace, it was hunger.

Here I am lying in bed, and all I can think about is how long it's been since someone touched me.

Not a hug from a friend. Not a hand on my shoulder in passing.

I mean touched me.

The kind of touch that makes your breath catch. That makes you aware of every inch of your skin. The kind that says I want you without needing words.

I miss that.

I really miss that.

I miss the warmth of someone's hand on my cheek, lifting me up and holding me, guiding me through a doorway. The way it feels to be pulled close, chest to chest, heartbeat against heartbeat.

I miss being kissed. Really kissed. The kind that starts soft and then deepens, where you forget where you are, forget everything except the taste of someone's mouth and the way their fingers thread through your hair.

I miss the vulnerability of it. Of letting someone see you, touch you, hold you in all the ways that require trust.

I took a shower earlier, and when I stepped out, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Steam still clinging to the glass. My skin flushed from the heat.

And I just stood there, looking at myself.

This body that no one is touching. That no one is reaching for. That no one is pulling close in the middle of the night just because they need to feel me there.

I ran my hand down my arm, over my collarbone, and it felt like the saddest thing in the world, that the only hands on my skin are my own.

I miss being wanted.

Not in some abstract, emotional way. I miss being wanted physically. The kind of desire that shows up in the way someone looks at you across a room. The way their hand finds yours without thinking. The way they lean in close just to breathe you in.

I miss the closeness. The intimacy. The way bodies fit together when you're lying in bed, tangled up in each other, half-asleep and completely safe.

I miss waking up next to someone. The warmth of another person. The sound of their breathing. The way the morning light filters through the curtains and you don't want to move because everything feels perfect right where it is.

But I've been moving.

I've been moving to remember that this body is mine.

I go to the gym and I workout, lift weights, just enough to feel my muscles engage, to feel the strength in my arms and shoulders and thighs. I like the way my body responds, the burn after effort, the way it gets stronger without me even noticing until one day I'm lifting something that felt impossible a month ago.

And I keep moving.

I dance in my living room. Hips swaying, arms reaching, feet bare against the hardwood. I put on music that makes me feel something sultry, rhythmic, alive, and I move until I'm breathless. Until my legs ache. Until I remember what it feels like to inhabit this body fully, to let it express what words can't.

There's a pleasure in it I didn't expect. A kind of aliveness that doesn't need anyone else to witness it. My body remembers how to feel good. How to move with intention. How to be powerful and soft at the same time.

And maybe that's its own kind of touch. Not the same as being held, not the same as skin against skin. But it's something. It's mine. And it reminds me that I'm not just waiting to be wanted. I'm here, alive, moving through this world in a body that still knows how to feel everything.

This is what solitude does.

It's not all peaceful self-discovery and journaling by candlelight.

Sometimes it's just this, lying alone in the dark, aching for touch, for closeness, for the simple human need to be held. And I know I could fix this, I could reach for someone, anyone, just to stop the ache, just to feel wanted for a night. But I won't trade my body for temporary relief, I won't give myself away just to stop feeling alone.

Because I know the difference now between being touched and being seen. Between being wanted and being chosen. Between filling the space and finding someone worth opening for.

So I'm here. In my bed. Alone.

Missing touch. Missing intimacy. Missing the feeling of being desired.

But not willing to settle for less than what I know I need.

Even when my body is screaming for it.

Even when the loneliness feels like it's carved into my bones.

I'm still here and still moving.

—Still aching, still waiting, still worth it