How to be loved

65 - Just hold on!

How to be loved

65 - Just hold on!

It's been nearly a month since Becky and I moved into the penthouse together. At first, it felt like the beginning of something extraordinary—a space that was ours, filled with love, laughter, and the thrill of building a life together. The night of our housewarming felt like a promise—a celebration of us, capped off with a passion so intense that I could still feel it in the walls of this place. But since that night, we haven't made love—not even once. The penthouse, though beautiful, feels colder now, as though it mirrors the growing distance between us.

Her work has consumed her. Every morning, she rushes out the door with her phone already in hand, lost in conversations I can't follow. When she comes home—if she comes home before midnight—she's too tired to do more than offer a weary smile before retreating to the bedroom. Even weekends, which I once imagined would be ours to relax and reconnect, are swallowed up by meetings and phone calls. And then there's Candice. Her name still appears on Becky's phone from time to time, a silent reminder of a conversation we've yet to have. Not because I don't want to, but because there's never a chance. Becky is always too busy, and when she isn't, it feels like she's too far away, even when she's right here.

Meanwhile, my own days feel quiet. I have my shoots, but my schedule isn't as chaotic as hers. The emptiness of the penthouse during those long hours gives me too much time to think, to feel the ache of missing her. I miss her laugh echoing through the space, the way her hand would linger on mine in passing, the way she'd pull me close without needing a reason. I miss the intimacy—not just physical, but emotional—that made this place feel alive. Living together should be enough, but right now, it feels like I'm sharing this home with a shadow of the woman I fell in love with.

Sometimes, I can't help but wonder—did she ask me to move in because she knew she'd be this busy? Did she think this would keep us connected, even as her world pulled her further away? The thought is bittersweet, a mix of relief and sadness. I want to believe this is just a phase, that the whirlwind of her schedule will calm and we'll find our way back to each other.

For now, I cling to the small comforts—the faint scent of her perfume on the couch cushions, the sight of her coffee cup left on the counter, the occasional brush of her fingers as we pass each other in the rare moments we're both here. I love her, even in this distance. She's still mine, and I'm still hers. But as I sit in the quiet of this grand, empty space, I can't help but wonder if this will ever be enough.

The sharp *beep, beep, beep* of the oven timer cut through the quiet, pulling me from my tangled thoughts. The sound was insistent, echoing off the marble countertops and lingering in the air. I sighed, setting down the whisk I'd been gripping a little too tightly, and turned toward the oven.

I was baking—trying to, at least. The kitchen looked like a war zone, with flour coating the counters and smudges of batter streaked across my apron. I was practicing, determined to perfect her favorite blueberry cheesecake in time for our monthsary next week. It wasn't just about the dessert—it was about us. About showing her I still cared, still noticed the little things, even when everything felt so distant.

The timer continued its relentless *beep, beep, beep,* urging me to act. I grabbed the oven mitts and opened the door, a wave of heat washing over me. The cheesecake wasn't perfect yet, the edges slightly uneven, the top not as golden as I hoped. But it was progress, and that was something.

I placed the pan on the counter and leaned against the edge, staring at it like it held the answers to all my questions. Maybe it was just a cheesecake, but in this moment, it felt like more. It felt like hope—a way to bring back the light in her eyes, even if just for a moment.