I miss you. I really do. My head has rested on your shoulder, our eyes waking up with sleep, replaced with the hunger for each other every morning since Thursday. Our bodies addicted to the new rituals, to their new partners. Yes, you are right about the Air Conditioner. I will inevitably get hot shortly after entering the freezer that is your bedroom. Our bodies glistening in the mirror, physically invigorated, the exhaustion from our days and lack of sleep, irrelevant.
I am addicted.
I didn’t like you. In my mind, this was improbable. But, you were right. You say you just knew. Your straight-forward declaration of that knowledge was perhaps not eloquent, but I appreciate your candor. You liked me, yet you didn’t want to be my boyfriend, you just wanted to sleep with fuck me.
Yeah right, I thought.
And now, I am addicted.
Last night as we spoke, our first night apart, I searched for words, for understanding. A woman’s response to something so perfect that needs no words. How did this happen? I don’t understand what the hell I am feeling. I too, don’t want you to be my boyfriend, but I really like you. You really like me too. Fuck, I think. “Could this grow into something?” my mind wonders. “Don’t think,” you say. “Ok,” I respond. I know you are right, but I am leaving for New York, and I miss you already.
I suppose this is what they call “friends with benefits”? (An arrangement I have always objected.) I always thought that FWBs lacked these corresponding mutual emotions.
You are addicted.
You miss me, already.
I will listen to you. I will avoid a vocalized search for why this is so fulfilling. For now, my companion, I adore you.