Page 39 of Venus
But I know better than that.
“It’s late. I’m kinda beat from work. You should probably head out soon,” I say, though it’s really not what I want.
She stiffens. “Oh,” she whispers, then untangles herself from me. “Right. Yeah.”
A stupid part of my heart convinces me I see a flicker of hurt in her eyes, but I know better than that, too.
She gets dressed in silence, facing away from me to save us both the awkward glances.
I don’t want her to leave, but I also don’t want my heart to feel like a liability to her.
No dinner. No small talk. No breakfast.
She texts, I answer. We meet, we fuck, we leave.
That’s our pattern for a month.
At first, it’s a way for me to take back control of this thing we have. I follow the rules, never overstaying my welcome or bombarding her with my feelings. I tell myself that this is better, that I’m saving myself the heartbreak.
But by the fourth or fifth time, it starts wearing down on me, like a grindstone straight to my soul. Every time I see her, it now fills me with dread. I’m cold, robotic, and hollow when I’m around her. Literally a different person than when I’m with my buddies or anyone else.
I’m no longer saving myself the heartbreak, just prolonging it.
Venus is different too. She smiles less. She’s quieter. She’s less mouthy, which is one of the things I love about her.
But she never bothers to ask why I’ve suddenly grown detached, and the longer this goes on, the less I think she cares. I won’t bother giving her any more of me, and I won’t offer her another version of this.
One, because I’m scared she’ll say no, and two, because she’s always made it so clear to me that it’s not what she wants.
This time, when the door closes behind her, I go back to my room and sit on the edge of my bed. I stare at my rumpled sheets that still linger with her scent. My chest feels tight. My throat burns.
This isn’t working for me. Not anymore. I’m not willing to keep going like this–with this distance between us.
I miss her laugh and the way she borrows my socks while hers are in my washing machine. The way she hums while she brushes her teeth and steals a handful of black licorice before she leaves.
I miss her. Not the hookup or the distraction. Her.
I get up and walk to the kitchen, filling a glass of water from the tap. I take a small sip and stare at my empty apartment. It feels uncomfortably big and void of life. This has been my home for years, but suddenly, it’s missing something.
And I know exactly what it is.
Or rather–who.
The next time she texts me comes just the next day.
Venus: Free tonight?
I don’t reply right away, just let it sit there while I stare at the words on the screen.
I want her, I do. Just not like this.
Me: Can we talk first?
She reads the message. Then a typing bubble pops up. Then disappears. Then comes back before disappearing again, before it leaves for good.
No response. The phone is as empty as my apartment.
I wait aimlessly on my couch with a movie on mute in the background. I just want an answer, even if it confirms this is as one-sided as it feels.
