Before I Lost You

1. BEFORE EVERYTHING

BEFORE EVERYTHING

I’ve told myself that loneliness is an illusion.

That you can’t actually feel lonely when you’re clearly surrounded by people all the time.

But I’m beginning to think that maybe I’ve been trying to convince myself so I don’t spiral, so my carefully threaded life doesn’t unravel.

No matter how many men I bring home with me night after night, it always ends the same.

I’m present, but not. Physically here, but emotionally disconnected.

It’s a song I know the rhythm to, one I dance to frequently.

Kiss. Fuck. Leave. Repeat.

And I feel absolutely nothing.

His hands are on my skin, but my mind is elsewhere—somewhere with a stranger I keep seeing in my dreams. I can never see his face, but I know I love him.

Somehow, I’m certain of that. It makes no sense, but it feels real to me.

I feel the ache, the longing, but he’s unreachable.

I’m inside someone who means nothing to me, thinking about someone who doesn’t even exist.

“Conrad.” The man under me moans. “Fuck, right there.”

I close my eyes tightly and pound into him from behind, and fuck, I can’t even remember his fucking name. Is it Frank? Paul? Those don’t even sound remotely similar. I’ve messed this all up.

It doesn’t feel good. I know it should—all sex should.

But it seems that’s no longer enough for me.

All I can think of is him, the man from my dream.

I shake my head, trying to focus, and bite my bottom lip so hard I taste blood.

I need to do this. I need to prove to myself that I’m not broken.

For the sake of my mental health. I need to be able to carry on as I always have.

I need to put this little obsession behind me.

He’s not even real.

I grab onto the man’s hips and fuck him at an angle that has him clutching the sheets and moaning gibberish.

If this isn’t good for me, the least I can do is make it good for him.

It’s not his fault that my mind is a fucking mess right now.

I hit his prostate over and over and feel him begin to shake, and when his hole clamps around my cock, my balls draw up and I empty into the condom.

I don’t even make a sound.

I should’ve felt more, done more, been into it at the very least. But none of that happened, and I think he can tell.

I pull out quietly and go into his bathroom, wetting a rag and handing it to him so he can clean himself up, then lock myself in the bathroom and dispose of the condom.

I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror.

My black hair is disheveled, green eyes red-rimmed as if I’ve been crying, even though I haven’t been.

Even my bottom lip looks fucked, some blood still on it.

But there’s something about my face that makes me pause, and it’s not necessarily anything physical.

It’s that I look absolutely miserable, and I know I need to get out of here.

The last thing I want to do is hurt him, and I’m sure I’m close to doing just that.

I exit the bathroom to see him sitting up on the bed, looking at me expectantly, and come to a sudden halt. We stare at each other for a beat, and then he looks down at his hands. When we make eye contact again, I know I hurt him.

“You didn’t like it, did you?” he asks, green eyes sad.

“I’m not—” I stutter. “I—”

“It’s okay.” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair and pulling the blankets over his lap. “Please lock the door on your way out.”

I nod, but he’s already turning away from me and reaching for his phone, a clear dismissal. It should sting, but I feel nothing, and that’s a red flag. I need to get the fuck out of here.

My jeans are on the floor next to the bed, and I pull them on, then continue walking around the apartment in search of the rest of my clothes.

My shirt is by the front door, and my shoes are in front of the couch.

When I first got here, this seemed promising.

I was even excited when I was prepping him.

But then it felt wrong. Being inside of him.

I’m not sure why that is. Maybe I’m going crazy. It’s the only explanation.

I get dressed quickly, then turn the lock on the doorknob on my way out.

I walked here from the bar, and my penthouse isn’t far, so it makes sense to walk there too.

The streets of the Seaport District in Boston are empty at this time of night, and most would maybe feel unsafe walking around in the middle of the night, but I’m not scared.

Maybe I’m passively suicidal. Or maybe I don’t give a fuck about anything.

I’m no longer sure. What I do know is that I’m living a life that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

Yeah, I have the job as a pharmaceutical chemical engineer that I worked really hard for.

I have the dream penthouse that was on my vision board for years.

But something is missing. There’s a void in my life that I can’t seem to fill, no matter how much I try.

And I’ve been trying very hard. I just think maybe I’ve been doing it wrong this entire time.

I’ve considered maybe I need to stop hooking up and think about settling down, but I’ve never found anyone who has made me want to commit.

No one who has stolen my breath away, made my hands shake, or my heart race.

I don’t want a gentle love. I want fireworks, an explosion inside my chest. I want to fucking feel something big and know that it’s reciprocated.

I want to stop feeling so alone in everything.

Rain begins to pour, and I curse. I didn’t bring an umbrella or a raincoat, but I wouldn’t have anyway.

It’s May and hot as hell. By the time I make it to my building, my clothes are sticking to my skin, and I’m somehow shivering.

The doorman looks at me with wide eyes and nods in greeting, and I nod back, going to the elevator and letting myself up.

All I can think about is how shitty I was to that guy, and I really do want to apologize.

But I also don’t want to pour salt on the wound.

Because what am I supposed to say? Sorry, I didn’t like fucking you?

It would make everything so much worse. It’s not his fault that my mind is a fucked-up place to be lately.

The only person I look forward to seeing is Emerson, my best friend.

Thankfully, we work together, so we see each other almost every day.

The elevator opens with a ding, and my living room comes into view.

The floor-to-ceiling windows on the far end show me a grand view of the city, and I exhale shakily as it dawns on me how quiet and empty my home feels.

Because it’s not a home. It’s just a place to lay my head down at night.

Nothing is tying me to this penthouse; I could sell it tomorrow and not miss it at all.

It seems that’s how I feel about everything in my life right now.

Detached.

Empty.

It’s a shame considering how badly I wanted this.

I walk through the dark living room and hallway until I get to my bedroom, and then I make it into the bathroom with the lights still off.

I light the candle next to the sink and turn on the shower faucet, switching it to the hot setting.

I need to burn right now. Need to feel something. Anything at all.

My clothes are hard to take off, sticking to me in a way that’s bordering on annoying, but I finally manage to get out of them.

I throw them on the ground next to the sink, uncaring that the water is getting on the hardwood floor.

I should give a shit, but all I feel is numb.

Nothing can touch me. Nothing can hurt me. Nothing matters.

Getting into the shower and under the hot spray of water is a relief.

My muscles instantly relax, and I tip my head back and let the water drip over my face.

After a few minutes of standing around, I wash my hair and lather myself up, washing my body too.

But when I make it to my cock, I feel a familiar ache that’s hard to ignore.

This is what I should’ve done to begin with.

I should’ve stayed in and used my hand; it’s the most reliable lately anyway.

I grip my cock with a steady fist, pumping it up and down with soap in my hand to make it an easy glide.

It feels incredible, and my toes curl into the tile.

This. This is what I needed tonight, not whatever the fuck that was at the guy’s apartment.

Why can’t I feel anything with another person?

That makes no sense. All I’ve had lately are lackluster fucks and a ton of disappointment.

I’m honestly tired of it. Exhausted of pretending to give a shit when that’s the last thing on my mind.

I’m tired of putting on an act for the sake of getting laid.

I think I’m done.

No.

I know I am.

My hand slaps against the shower wall as I feel the heat pool in my lower belly, my spine tingling with my impending release.

I grit my teeth as I feel the gradual pleasure mount, and I breathe in deeply, nostrils flaring as my balls draw up.

And then I make a mistake. I close my eyes and imagine hands on my skin.

His hands. The ones that belong to someone I don’t know.

Someone who isn’t real at all. I see the curve of his back in my mind’s eye like he’s right there, though.

I look further down, and his ass is in front of me, dimples right above it.

My hands spread his cheeks, and I stare at his hole, tight and pink and so fucking pretty.

It’s that sight that has my body tightening, my cum spraying onto the shower wall in streaks.

I groan lowly and tip my head back, my body shaking slightly from the force of my orgasm.

Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?

Why can I only come to images of an imaginary person in my brain?

It makes zero sense, and I’m afraid I’ll be comparing everyone to him from now on.

There’s no way anyone can match his perfection.

And that’s… problematic. But he feels real.

Like a memory, instead of my imagination.

Is it possible I’ve actually met him before and just don’t remember him?

That would make more sense than me making up someone in my mind.

I rinse my body and clean the wall, then turn the water off and grab the towel hanging from the shower wall hook.

It’s fluffy, and I shut my eyes and breathe in deeply as I dry myself.

When I step out, I immediately grab the clothes from the floor and take them to the laundry room, throwing them in the washer and going back to my room.

My bed looks inviting in a way it hasn’t been in a very long time, so I pull the comforter back and climb in, draping it over my body until only my face is out of it.

And then I breathe, staring up at the ceiling for what feels like forever.

It’s peaceful, and I’d say I’m almost in a meditative state when I let my eyes finally close.

I’m relaxed, limbs melting into the mattress as I take deep breaths and begin literally counting sheep.

I know it’s stupid, but sometimes it helps me fall asleep.

I’ve had trouble sleeping my entire life.

I turn onto my left side, the way I usually fall asleep, and breathe in deeply one more time.

But when everything finally goes black, and I’m sure I’ve fallen asleep, all I see are images of him.

Again. An infinity tattoo between his thumb and forefinger.

A gold chain that feels cold against my lips when I kiss his neck. And it feels so damn real.

Why can’t I escape him?