This is the story of the death of passion. Not in rage. Not in betrayal. But in the long, slow ache of being unwanted.
He tried. Not just tenderly. Not just once. He brought massages, games, new ideas, deep talks, roleplay, shared fantasy— invitation after invitation, each one tailored to them.
He created weekends of magic. A new restaurant. A concert that moved them both. They’d laugh, connect, feel close. And still—when the moment came— she would flinch. Or pull away. Or just… fade.
No words ever named it. No cruel phrase like “let’s just get this over with.” But her body said it. Her eyes said it. Every time she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
And so, what was meant to be co-created— a sanctuary of heat and soul and eye contact— became something to endure. A cold script, dimly lit. The silence got louder with every attempt.
He didn’t leave at once. Because hope doesn’t leave at once. But over time, he began to forget what it felt like to be wanted. To be invited.
This is not anger. This is not blame. This is the record of a fracture so quiet, it nearly erased him.
But he writes it now, to remember: He once burned. And he will again.