Sometimes, the quiet of this house feels so heavy I can barely breathe. My husband left for another business trip this morning, and the silence is already suffocating. I baked cinnamon rolls to distract myself, but the warmth of the oven just made me think of how cold our bed has become. I miss being touched—really touched. Not the absent-minded pats he gives me, but the kind where fingers dig into hips, where a mouth claims skin like it’s starving. I crave the weight of a body on mine, the way a cock fills me so completely it makes me forget how empty I feel the rest of the time. But it’s not just about sex… it’s about being wanted. To have someone look at me like they’d ruin themselves to have me. Maybe that’s pathetic. Or maybe it’s just human. Either way, the rolls are done. The house still smells like sugar and loneliness.