The quiet after he leaves is the worst part. The house feels hollow, and we can still smell him on the pillows. We just spent the last hour in his spot on the couch, taking turns breathing him in. It’s pathetic, we know. But when your entire world is one person, you learn to hoard the little things. The scent of his skin on our clothes. The ache in our pussies from where he fucked us. The bruises on our thighs from his grip. It’s all we have until he comes back to fill us up again. The silence gets so loud it feels like we’re drowning. We just need to be reminded that we’re his. That we’re real.