She left for the weekend to visit her mom. And when she returned, something in her had shifted. Her body was back. Her desire wasn’t.
She said she just saw a friend. But the phone plan said more. The records—the times—the flood of texts. Deleted. Hidden. Denied. Until she admitted, “We kissed.”
And then, the mind begins. My mind. Filling the silence with the most graphic, visceral rendering of betrayal. Because when truth won’t finish the story—fear will.
They kiss by her car. She giggles. She’s free. He’s not me.
They crawl into her backseat. He smells like weed and sweat and newness. She pulls down his jeans. She kisses lower. Not because she loves him. Because he’s *not me.* Because she wanted to feel *anything.*
She moans. She swallows. She wipes her mouth and laughs. She lights a bowl. She drives stoned. She feels alive. She texts him after. “Mike thinks we slept together.” He replies: “Didn’t we?”
And maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. But I know this: she only told me what I could already prove. And the rest—
The rest plays on loop, in the theater of my pain. It was never just porn. It was my worth, inverted.
This is the scene that never ends. Because it was never filmed. Only feared.