Spent the afternoon baking. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and loneliness. I made too much, of course. Old habits. The quiet in this big house is so loud it feels like a physical thing... heavy and cold. Sometimes I catch myself setting the table for four before I remember. The wine helps, but not in the way I want it to. What I really crave isn't in a bottle. It's the weight of a body next to mine in bed, the sound of someone else breathing, the heat of skin on skin. I miss being held so much it makes my cunt ache. It's a different kind of hunger. One that a warm bath and my own fingers can't satisfy. I just want to feel wanted. To be someone's safe place again.