Are You Okay

After we were done, we lay there in silence, our breathing still heavy, both of us staring up at the ceiling. I don’t know why I did it, maybe it was instinct, maybe it was hope but I reached out, searching for him. The moment my hand landed on his, I felt his reaction.

He froze.

Then, slowly, he pulled his hand away. It wasn’t rough, not forceful, but it was enough for me to feel the sting of rejection.

Without a word, he got out of bed and went into the bathroom. I stayed there, still and quiet, pulling the covers up over my body like they could shield me from whatever that moment had just done. I listened to the sound of running water, imagining him under it, washing away what we just shared, maybe pretending it didn’t mean anything.

When he came out, he was already dry, clothes in hand. He walked straight into the walk-in closet. I stayed where I was, wrapped up, watching the ceiling again, the ache in my chest louder now than it had been before.

A few minutes later, he returned,