The text came at 2:14 a.m.
You looked so soft in the shower tonight.
My heart did a backflip. I gasped, feeling a mix of fear and something way darker, like a dirty secret. I shot up in bed, sheets all messed up around my legs, kinda sweaty. My hand was shaking as I grabbed my phone, reading the text over and over, like that would make it less scary or personal.
The air felt heavy, hot, and tight. Someone was watching me. They saw me—not just my body, but how I moved, how I breathed, how the water ran all over me. And I knew who it was. I shouldn't have known, but I just did. I felt this heat in my stomach—not fear or panic, but straight-up desire tangled with shame.
Daniel was asleep next to me, totally still, like a dead body. His mouth was a bit open, and he was turned away, like always. So distant, like I couldn't reach him. He hadn't touched me in months. I flipped my phone over and shoved it on the nightstand, but those words were already burned into my brain.
You looked so soft… God, I was. The steam was thick and good. I closed my eyes under the water, running my fingers down my stomach like I wanted something more than just the heat. And someone saw it all.
Morning bled into the room like I'd done something wrong. I walked into the kitchen in that black silk robe—the one Daniel used to be all over. The one he used to untie super slow, back when he actually looked at me. Now, he didn't even glance up. He was at the table, messing with his tablet, holding his coffee, half-drunk. A plate of eggs was there, untouched. Cold.
"Good morning," I said quietly.
He just grunted. That was it. I stirred my coffee, watching the cream swirl into the black like smoke. My stomach flipped, my robe slid off my shoulder a bit, showing skin he used to adore. Nothing. I could've been a ghost.
I wasn't the type of woman that cheated. I wasn't wild. I didn't go after guys. But when your own man forgets you're even there, even the silence starts to cut.
Later, I locked the bathroom door, heart pounding. Another text waited.
Did you think of me when you played with yourself last night?
I choked, dropping the phone. I didn't do anything last night, but I thought about it. About other guys' hands on me, mouths, words Daniel hasn't said in forever.
I leaned against the wall, breathing hard. My nipples hardened under the robe, legs squeezing together on their own. This was wrong—so wrong. But I wasn't scared. I felt alive.
The message glowed like a secret begging to be confessed. And I knew this was how it all started—not with a kiss, not a touch, but a late-night text. A part of me whispered... Send another.
The next morning, I woke up tangled in the sheets, legs parted, still kinda sweaty. My body buzzed. Daniel's side of the bed was empty. Again. A dent still there, like the ghost of him. I touched it. Cold.
I stared at the ceiling, that ache between my thighs was still there. I didn't even touch myself, but it felt like I had. Like my mind had done it for me. Was he watching right now? Did he know I was falling apart?
In the mirror, I let the robe fall. Not to check flaws—but to see what he saw. The curve of my waist. My chest. My nipples were still stiff from memory. I turned sideways. Would he want this view too? Would he tell me to arch my back?
I got into the shower and cranked the water hot. Steam filled the room. I pressed my hand against the glass. Was he out there? Watching? I imagined it: his breath fogging the glass. His eyes. His mouth parted. His hand inside his pants while he watched me.
I moaned—then bit my lip.
I should have felt guilty. I didn't.
Daniel was gone, always gone. No notes. No kisses. The eggs were still cold on the counter. Just like me.
I sat and forced down toast I didn't even want. I checked my phone. Nothing. No message. That hurt more than anything.
I walked around the house like a ghost.
The sun was too bright. I closed the curtains, curled on the couch, legs under me. I replayed his words like a chorus.
Did you think of me when you played with yourself?
My hand drifted. Not yet. But maybe tonight.
By noon, I had to get out. I stepped outside barefoot, the wind brushing my skin. I stood in the grass, eyes closed, face to the sun. The robe was thin—way too thin. Let him see me. Let him feel this.
Then I turned.
No one.
Except a small black box on the porch chair, wrapped in red ribbon.
My knees nearly gave out. I walked over, slow. Breath shaky. Inside the box was a golden flame pendant. His symbol. Sexy. Possessive. Like he owned me, without chains.
I didn't wear it. Not yet. I placed it on my dresser. A promise. A warning.
That night, Daniel came home late. No kisses. Not anything. He smelled like aftershave.
Not mine.
"Did you put something on the porch for me?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"The necklace."
He blinked. "No. Why would I?"
Of course.
He didn't see me.
But someone else did.
In bed, I looked at the text again. This time, I said it aloud.
You looked so soft in the shower tonight.
My hand slid under the sheets. I gasped. I thought of him watching. His hands. His mouth. My body was arching for him.
I needed him. Badly.
Please don't stop... I typed.
Then deleted it.
Who are you?
I didn't send that either. Just slid the phone under the pillow.
At 3:00 a.m., it buzzed.
One new message.
You're always alone. Why does he never touch you?
Tears fille
d my eyes. Not from sadness.
From the truth.
Someone finally saw me.
And the worst part?
I wanted more.