"Daniel." Her voice in my memory, breathy and desperate. "God, Daniel—"
My hand moves without permission, wrapping around myself as the water runs hot down my back. I shouldn't. This feels wrong somehow, taking this when I don't deserve even the memory of her.
But I can't stop.
I remember the taste of her skin, salt and something uniquely Bailey. The sound she made when I kissed that spot below her ear, half-sigh and half-moan. The way her nails dug into my shoulders when she came, her whole body trembling against mine.
The way she whispered "I love you" after, like she couldn't help herself. Like the words were pulled from somewhere deep and true.
I stroke myself faster, chasing the memory. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her mouth, hot against my neck. The perfect slide of being inside her, the way she felt like home—
I come with her name on my lips, one hand braced against the shower wall, and for three seconds I can almost pretend she's here. That I didn't destroy everything. That I could turn around and find her wrapped in my robe, stealing my coffee, giving me that smile that made my chest ache.
Then reality crashes back.
The shower is empty. The apartment is empty. I'm alone because I chose this, because I pushed her away, because I was too damaged and scared to let myself be loved.
I slide down to sit on the shower floor, water beating down on my shoulders, and the grief hits so hard I can't breathe. It's not just missing her smile or her laugh or the way she understood me. It's missingthis—the intimacy, the trust, the way our bodies knew each other. The way she let me see her completely vulnerable and gave me the same gift in return.
I lost all of it. Every piece.
By the time I make it to bed, I'm hollowed out. Exhausted. But I force myself to open my Notes app to start the trust assignment Dr. Chen gave me, because I promised I'd do the work.
Day 1,I type, hand shaking slightly.Today Dr. Chen helped me see that I've been confusing being needed with being loved. That I thought I had to earn Bailey by being useful instead of just... being.
I pause, pen hovering over paper.
I miss her. Not just her company or her laugh or her mind—though I miss those so much it physically hurts. I miss HER. Herbody. Her skin. The way she tasted. The sounds she made. The way she looked at me when we made love like I was something precious.
I miss being the person she trusted enough to be vulnerable with. I miss being worthy of that trust.
I don't know if I'll ever get that back. But I'm going to keep trying. Because she deserves someone who understands that love isn't transactional. That being wanted isn't about being useful.
She deserves someone who knows his own worth. Who can receive love instead of just performing it.
I exit the app and turn off the light, but it’s not easy to fall asleep.
When I finally do, I dream of her. And when I wake alone in the dark, reaching for someone who isn't there, the ache starts all over again.
***
The next morning, Dr. Chen's assignment is the first thing I think of, reminding me there's work to do.
I sit in my car in the parking lot.
Open the Notes app on my phone. Create a new note: "Trust Journal - Day 2."
The cursor blinks at me.
What am I supposed to write? I haven't made any trust choices yet. I've just admitted I'm broken and need help.
Then it hits me.
Scheduling therapywasa trust choice. Trusting a stranger with my trauma. Trusting that the process will work. Trusting that I can change instead of controlling and destroying everything.
I type:Committing to therapy instead of trying to fix this alone. Choosing vulnerability over control.
I stare at the words.
