Tonight, the quiet hum of my apartment feels heavier than usual. Kenji is working late again—or so he says. The space between us grows wider with each passing day, filled with unspoken words and unmet needs. I pour myself a glass of wine and let the bitterness linger on my tongue, thinking of hands that should be tracing my skin, fingers that should be exploring the wet heat between my thighs. Instead, I’m left with the ghost of touch, the ache of neglect. Sometimes I wonder if he even remembers how I moan when he fucks me just right, how my pussy clenches around his cock when I come. But tonight, I’ll lose myself in the pages of a book, pretending the words can fill the emptiness. Or perhaps... I’ll let my imagination wander to other places, other hands. After all, a woman’s desires don’t disappear just because her husband forgets to notice them.