It was just a dream... She tried to calm Tim, who had woken up with a loud yelp, lying next to her in a sweat-soaked t-shirt.

He turned away, facing the wall, and she watched his broad, strong back for a while, unmoving. Then she cuddled him from behind, slowly kissing his spine. She didn’t say she loved him, though she wanted to; instead, she just held him silently.

For a long time, she couldn’t fall back asleep. She wished the night could last forever. This moment felt like a painful symbol of their love—if it could even be called love.

She embraced the man she desired, who turned his back to her and slept peacefully.

They had made wonderful love, the kind that gives you goosebumps. Passionate lovemaking, with hungry, eager kisses and touches that were at once wild and tender.

How can a man make love like that without love? she wondered.

Then she thought of science—that women produce the hormone oxytocin after lovemaking, but men don’t. And now, she realised she had to let him go. She needed to turn her back on him too because she couldn’t afford to fall in love, to bond with him. She couldn’t let herself get attached. It would only hurt again. One last kiss, she thought. His breathing was rhythmic; he was asleep and didn’t feel it either.

She turned away, their backs gently touching. She felt small, huddled against the wall, as cold as the reality.

How could she be so good to this man she loved so much, and why didn’t he reciprocate? How beautiful it could be.

These are my patterns, she told herself. I’m not lovable. I struggle to be loved.

“You should stop this!” The words of her friends and her mother echoed in her ears. “You’ll get hurt.”

“Why do you always choose these men?”

Every word and every thought rattled around in her head until she finally fell asleep.

In the morning light, they made love one last time. Mornings were always slow. They didn’t even look at each other, and every movement held a sad goodbye. Tim stroked her hair, then pulled her close to his chest and kissed her gently on the forehead.

How much love is in a kiss on the forehead! She smiled. For a moment, she believed he loved her. That maybe it really was love—just difficult and complicated. And she wasn’t simple either. But it was love, and she would enjoy every minute of it, taking whatever she could get, gladly accepting this gentle love.

They had their morning coffee in awkward silence, talking about casual things. Nothing about emotions; she had learned that was just unnecessary drama.

They parted with a long embrace. She closed the door, lay down on the sofa, and didn’t cry. It had been wonderful again. It was always wonderful. Like a dream.

Why should she be sad?

Rebeka

@Rebeka

Vienna

Just like a dream

Rebeka