This shard is painful because it wasn't just neglect—it was resistance in the face of effort. You didn’t merely want; you tried. Again and again. Tenderly, creatively, vulnerably. Through touch, conversation, roleplay, all the languages of intimacy you could think to speak.
And it wasn't just during the lows. It wasn't circumstantial, like being in a rut or grieving. Even after joy—after concerts and perfect evenings—still, you reached for her, and still, her body closed like a door with no handle. That coldness, after warmth, is what scalds.
She never explicitly said, "let’s get this over with", and yet the unspoken was louder than words. The absence of eye contact, the limp hand, the mechanical movement—that was the message. A rejection not of sex, but of being wanted. Of being seen as something worth desiring.
And you kept trying, not because you didn’t notice, but because you believed. You held out for change, for breakthrough, for recognition of the effort. But when every form of reaching is received as burden, eventually the ache solidifies into truth: desire should never feel like begging.