Sex Addiction ✔

14

Cayden's POV.

I throw off the blanket, run barefoot to the bathroom, and turn on the faucet to let the water flow.

I bury my face in the sink, then suddenly lift my head just before suffocating, looking at my reflection covered in water droplets.

That dream hadn't ended there.

At some point, the girl's face had turned into Emily's.

When I finally released my desire and let go of Emily, she leaned against my chest, panting, and said, "Cayden, you've been under too much pressure lately, haven't you?"

"No," I shook my head.

"Liar," she looked at me, "Hunter called me, saying you lost your temper at someone again... I hung up, and then you knocked on the door."

"This isn't a good sign..."

"You're too much of a perfectionist, so you're stressed. The work will never be done; you need to learn to delegate, okay?"

Sensing my lack of response, she paused and then sighed softly, "Forget it, you won't remember any of this by tomorrow anyway."

I wasn't really listening.

As she spoke softly in my ear, I played with her hair with one hand, my eyes fixed on the water stains on the ceiling.

"Baby, come home with me. This rental place is too shabby; I can't let you stay here."

I held her hand and placed her palm in mine.

"You've suggested this so many times," she sighed softly.

"So why do you keep refusing?"

"Distance makes the heart grow fonder."

"I don't think so. I want to see you every morning when I wake up."

She was silent for a few seconds, then chuckled, "If you saw me every morning when you woke up, you'd probably get a big scare."

"Why?" I widened my eyes.

A streak of light appeared on the horizon.

Emily sat up, glanced out the window, then nudged me, "Cayden, you should go home."

I grabbed her wrist, "No."

"Don't be childish."

"No."

I wasn't going home.

How could a place without Emily be called "home"?

She bit her lower lip, looked out the window again, the distant dawn reflecting in her eyes.

"Cayden, stop being childish."

She whispered, with a hint of pleading.

Splash.

The water in the sink overflows, spilling onto the floor. I turn off the faucet and continue to stare at my reflection in the mirror, then slap my face hard with my right hand.

It hurts.

More fragmented memories flood my mind, like waves returning to the sea at low tide.

In the same rental room, I was lying in bed holding her, complaining about the new assistant at the company who couldn't make coffee properly, saying it tasted like it had sand in it.

"I'll write down the steps to make coffee, okay?"

She paused, "You have too many issues: perfectionism and OCD. I might not only have to write down the coffee-making steps but also the arrangement of your office pen holder and the air conditioning settings. Otherwise, who knows how many assistants you'll go through."