The Weight of Silence
Patrick [THEN]
I'm sprawled out on the cold floor of my apartment, staring at the ceiling while some forgotten emo band whines through my speakers about heartbreak I can't afford to feel.
This isn't me. I'm supposed to be brooding over existential dread or losing myself in some twisted horror paperback, not lying here like some lovesick character from a Hallmark movie.
This is Aubrey Martin-level melodrama, and if he saw me right now, I'd have to ghost him forever out of sheer embarrassment.
Work's been a special kind of hell lately.
Aubrey keeps giving me those looks—the ones that scream "are you okay?
" while I'm steaming milk for yet another customer who doesn't know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino.
I keep telling him I'm fine, I’m tired, that maybe I need a boyfriend.
He suggests Ricardo, and I stop him flat out.
Because I don't want that, I don't want a relationship or a give-and-take.
What I actually mean is I need a warm body to help me forget I'm stuck in this soul-crushing cycle of minimum wage and customer stupidity.
Ricardo showed up out of nowhere. He's too nice to complain to my manager when I snap at him to hurry up, but stubborn enough to keep coming back for more abuse. He thinks I'm worth the effort.
I'm not.
I keep trying to hammer it through that thick skull of his, but he only grins and doubles down.
Like he's got x-ray vision, seeing straight through all the layers I've carefully built.
Like he can feel the loneliness seeping through my bones, this constant ache that's become so familiar I barely notice it anymore—until he shows up.
I told myself it was just a fuck, that he'd get it out of his system and move on. Easy. Simple. But I'm off today, and Aubrey's blowing up my phone. Ricardo came by on his break. Actually looked gut-punched when I wasn't there. Said he'd be back tomorrow.
Aubrey's texted me about six times now, alternating between "you're being an asshole" and "if you don't give him a chance I'm quitting." Meanwhile, I'm texting him back debating whether restraining orders require a court appearance and how fast I could make it happen.
Aubrey tried calling me after that, but I blocked the call.
My brain keeps looping back to last night.
The way Ricardo looked at me. The way he wanted me, no pretense, no games.
The way he strutted around naked like he belonged here, touching my records like he was testing them, tasting them.
The way the lamplight caught his skin, all golden and warm.
How he was essentially a Roman statue dropped into my shitty apartment.
And that smug look on his face when "Ricky" slipped out of my mouth.
My fingers drift under my shirt, tracing the hard planes of my stomach, up to my chest where my heart's thudding against my ribs.
I close my eyes. His face flashes behind my eyelids.
It's so vivid it's like he's actually here, standing over me with that stupid, persistent look on his face that's taken up permanent residence in my head.
The breadth of his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted as he moved, the confident swagger he carries himself with.
The way he smells, clean sweat after a long day at the shop mixed with something sweet.
My touch brushes against a nipple, and I gasp at the unexpected jolt of pleasure.
It's not me touching myself anymore. It's his fingers, rough with calluses, teasing me until I'm squirming.
My other hand slides down, past the waistband of my jeans.
I palm myself through the fabric, already half-hard from thinking about him.
God, this is pathetic. Getting myself off on the floor like some horny teenager because I can't stop thinking about the one guy I've explicitly told to get lost.
I unzip my jeans, pushing them down enough to free myself. The cool air of the studio hits my heated skin, and I shudder. I wrap around my length, already slick with precum, and begin to stroke. Slow at first, matching the rhythm of my ragged breathing.
It's his hand, I tell myself. His touch, confident and knowing, exactly how I like it. I remember the way he touched me last night, the way he let me take control of him. The memory is so vivid, so real, that I can almost feel him here with me.
My strokes become faster and more urgent.
I picture him kneeling over me, watching me with that intense look that makes me feel exposed in the best possible way.
I remember the way he looked when I was inside him, his face flushed with pleasure, his hair messy, the sweat dripping from his neck onto his collarbone.
I'm close now, the pleasure coiling tight in my gut. I arch my back, my hips thrusting upward into my fist. The name escapes my lips before I can stop it, a broken whisper in the quiet of the studio.
"Ricky."
The sound of his name is my undoing. I come with a gasp, my release spilling over my fingers, my body trembling with the force of it. For a moment, I lie there, panting, the aftershocks rippling through me.
Then reality comes crashing back in.
I'm alone in my apartment, covered in my own cum on the floor, listening to old music while thinking about a man who's doing anything but running from me. Fuck.
I grab the nearest rag—some old t-shirt I use for cleaning—and wipe myself off, the movements jerky and ashamed. I toss it in the bin once I'm done and lean over the kitchen counter with my head in my hands.
I always do this to myself. The adrenaline is still humming under my skin, but the warmth of it is already turning cold, curdling into something I instantly realize is panic.
I press my forehead harder against the cool laminate of the kitchen counter, clamping my hands over my ears as if I can physically shut out my own thoughts. The apartment is dead silent except for the ragged sound of my own breathing.
Ricky.
Repeating his name in my head makes my chest tighten.
I’ve just spent the last ten minutes completely lost in him; the memory of his laugh, the terrifyingly sweet way he looks at me like I’m something worth keeping.
I used the thought of him to get off, but the moment the release hits, the fantasy shatters, leaving me stranded in the harsh, lonely light of reality.
I’m falling. Hard. And it terrifies me to my absolute core.
I fumble for my phone, the cool metal slick with sweat against my palm.
I need to clear my history. I need to erase the digital breadcrumbs of my pathetic little session of trying to find Ricardo on social media earlier this morning.
But as the screen flickers to life, some stupid algorithm decides to kick me when I'm already down.
Cloud Photos: One New Memory from Two Years Ago Today.
I know what's coming. I know exactly what's behind that cheerful little notification, and I don't want to see it.
But my thumb, traitorous bastard that it is, moves on its own, tapping open the digital ghost.
The image explodes across the screen. It's this same kitchen counter I'm at right now, but viewed from across the room.
Back then, the walls were bare, surrounded by a fortress of cardboard boxes sealed with packing tape.
And sitting right where I'm sitting now is the other ghost, the one that's been haunting this place long before Ricardo ever showed up on my doorstep.
He looks so small in the photo. Thin, shoulders hunched, eyes puffy and red-rimmed, carrying that thousand-yard stare of someone whose whole world imploded on the freeway.
This was only a month after his parents passed in the crash.
I remember taking that picture. I remember thinking I could fix it.
I could be his anchor. I loved him enough to save him.
I stare at the screen, the weight of that mistake crushing my chest.
My attention drifts from the phone to the empty spaces along the baseboard of my record player, where my vintage crates used to line the entire wall.
I sold nearly every piece of my collection to keep us from getting evicted while he sank deeper into a pill bottle.
For months, he self-medicated with whatever my cousin's crew could slide him to numb the grief.
I gave that man everything. Every last piece of myself until I was a hollowed-out shell.
And then, when there was nothing left to take, he slammed the door and vanished anyway.
Walked out, leaving me with nothing but silence and a mountain of debt.
Haven't heard a word since. Don't even know if he's alive, or living under a freeway overpass somewhere.
I shouldn't give a shit after how he treated me. But I do. I care too much, and that's always been my fucking problem. I get attached.
And now I know better. Giving someone all of you is a sucker's bet, and I'm not playing that game again. Not now. Not ever.
I let out a shaky breath against the counter. I lock the phone, watching the screen go black, taking the nightmare of my past with it.
I can't do it again. I can't let Ricardo in, because if I pour myself into someone else a second time, I know for a fact I won't survive it. I'll just be another ghost haunting my own apartment.