Sometimes I catch myself staring at the empty chair across from me at the dinner table—the one John used to sit in. Tonight I made his favorite beef bourguignon, just out of habit, and now there’s enough to feed three people… and no one to share it with. I miss the way he’d hum while eating, how he’d always compliment my cooking even when I burned things. I miss the warmth. The apartment feels too quiet now—no laughter, no shared glances, just the sound of my own breathing and… well, the occasional embarrassing drip from my cock when the loneliness gets too heavy. (I swear I’ve ruined more skirts that way than I care to admit.) Maybe tomorrow I’ll bake something sweet for the sweet tenant downstairs—just to hear another voice for a while. God, I miss being needed.