It was mostly a sad thing whenever they had sex. Not at the time, always, but after, definitely. She resented him and how he made her feel, and he tried not to think about how she made him feel. He mostly tried not to feel, at all. He figured if he could keep a healthy distance from her in every way except with his body, he’d be fine, and so would she. She knew this was what he did, and was mostly okay with it, except for on the days she missed him, which thankfully, wasn’t every day. He wasn’t everyday. And that was the very reason why she resented how he made her feel, which was loved.
The first time they had sex, he’d told her over and over again that he loved her and she hadn’t been able to say it back. He came inside her and she didn’t say anything at all, but she cried when she had to leave. The last time they had sex was almost exactly the same as the first. In fact it was identical except they were both many years older and significantly more cynical, and twice as scared, and certainly both of them were very, very stupid.
On some days she lays her hands on her body and wishes he was hers and hers alone. Other days she looks at her heart and wishes she had never known him at all. He can’t decide what he wishes for, so thinks it best to stick to how things are and the reality of the situation is that she will never be his. He doesn’t think so anyway, he’s never asked about it but can’t bear to hear whatever answer she has because it will either complicate things or complicate things more.
They are both rather confident that no one has loved them the way they love one another. They aren’t sure what it means, but they’re afraid to make it stop and so it might be very true that neither of them will ever be loved by anyone else the same way again.
It’s a hurtful, aching, terrible love so that’s probably for the best.