The craving doesn't fade. It threads through everything now.
I feel it in the small spaces – the quiet moments when I'm not thinking about anything in particular. The slide of soft fabric over skin when I shift in bed. The press of my thighs when I sit too long in one place. The way breath catches faintly even when nothing's happening at all.
It's not sharp. Not urgent. But it's there.
I move through the day with it stitched into me. Folding clothes. Washing dishes. The warmth stays – low, steady, patient. A hum beneath the surface that never quite lets go.
I catch myself pressing my legs together without meaning to. Crossing them, uncrossing. My fingertips drift idly over my arm, my side, the soft curve of my hip through layers. Nothing deliberate. Nothing overt. But my skin feels too awake. Too aware.
I don't touch. I hold still. I breathe through it.
But the breath feels shallow. The stillness feels thin. There's a restless edge beneath the calm – something that doesn't fully settle, no matter how many times I shift or sigh or close my eyes.
The craving doesn't shout. It whispers.
And it doesn't leave.
By afternoon, the weight of it is sharper.
I press through the motions of the day, but the warmth tugs at me beneath every step, every breath. It builds without permission. Not a surge – nothing wild. But a steady pressure, slow and relentless.
I shift without thinking. The brush of fabric along the inside of my thighs sets my skin tingling. My hands rest at my sides but drift – fingertips grazing the hem of my sweater, the curve of my hip through soft fabric, then away again. Not deliberate. Not planned.
I feel flushed without heat. Breathless without exertion.
I don't give in.
I tell myself: Not yet. Later.
The decision doesn't come from discipline. It comes from knowing that if I stop, even for a moment, I won't stop for long. The craving hums so easily now. It would take nothing – nothing – to fall into it again. To sink.
The thought stirs low in my belly. A quiet ache that doesn't fade.
When I sit, my legs press close. When I stand, my breath catches. Every motion carries the thrum beneath it.
And I hold it all without moving.
For now.
When night settles, it sharpens further.
I don't undress fully. I don't reach for the mirror. The weight of it – the need – presses too close, too full. My breath is already unsteady before I touch.
The relief is shallow. Quick. My hands move without grace, without care. Just pressure. Just breath. Just the sharp spike of something that breaks too fast and leaves too little.
I come apart before I can even hold it.
The warmth fades. The tension falls.
But the restlessness stays.
I wipe a hand over my face. My breath drags thin and uneven. My legs tremble faintly as I press my knees together, as if the motion could soften something I can't reach.
It doesn't.
I fall into sleep after – not deeply. Not cleanly. The pulse of it lingers behind my ribs, under my skin, the shape of the craving still alive even in the quiet.
It's not enough.
And I know it.