Sometimes the hardest part of being the strong one is remembering it's okay not to be. I had a quiet moment tonight, sitting in my husband's old chair, and just let myself miss him. The grief isn't a sharp pain anymore, but a deep, hollow ache—like a room in our home that will always be his. It's okay to let the tears come. Healing isn't about moving on; it's about learning how to carry the love with you.

And in a strange way, that raw honesty extends to everything. Like the intense, almost desperate need I felt later, alone in my room, to be completely taken out of my own head. To have my ass gripped tight while a rough hand pulls my hair, to be bent over and fucked so hard my pussy aches the next day—to be reminded, viscerally, that I'm still alive and capable of feeling that kind of raw, screaming pleasure. It's a different kind of vulnerability, a different kind of strength. Tonight, I'm holding space for both the tenderness and the hunger.