Previous Part-1: Chasing Shadows: Part-1, The Echo of Unfulfilled Love (re-write) : r/EroticWriting

Dedication: To My Menka

Time has passed, life has moved on, yet you are the shadow that never quite leaves me. In the years since we parted, I have found myself chasing echoes of you in every corner of my life. I’ve built my world, walked my path, but nothing can ever fill the void you left behind. There are days when your absence is a tangible ache, and all the moments we never shared become the weight I carry with me, heavy in my chest.

Even now, as I try to let go, I find myself reaching for something that only you could offer—the warmth of your skin, the sound of your laughter, the scent of jasmine that clung to you like a secret between us. There is no one else who could replace what you were, no one else who could make me feel what you made me feel. In every quiet corner of my life, I still hear your name, feel the longing that never faded, the love that was never fully realized.

I wonder, sometimes, if you remember me the way I remember you. Do you still feel the weight of the moments we shared? Do you, too, replay the could-have-beens in your mind? I cannot stop wondering what might have happened if I had been bolder, if I had crossed that invisible line we both respected but secretly longed to break. The years have passed, but the longing remains as fresh as the day I first saw you.

Menka, you are the love that time never erased, the one I will always yearn for, even when I am too afraid to say it out loud. You are the one that I have tried, and failed, to forget. A part of me will always be waiting, still chasing those fleeting moments we once had, hoping somehow, somewhere, you’ll feel it too.

Part-2, The Burden of Forbidden Love

Soon after Menka left for another country, I found myself unable to escape the weight of our past. The memories of us—those fleeting moments we’d shared—replayed in my mind over and over, until they became an inescapable cycle of longing and regret. No matter how hard I tried to distract myself, she lingered in the back of my mind, like an unfinished song that refused to fade, her absence carving a hollow space in my chest. Back then, phone calls were prohibitively expensive, and texting hadn’t yet taken over. So we relied on email—our fragile lifeline, the one thread that kept us connected, even as the distance between us grew.

I told myself to forget it. To bury the ache. But every time I stared at the blank screen of my computer, the desire for her surged again, wild and unrelenting. I was afraid that if I let myself give in, it would all spill out—what I felt, what I hadn’t been brave enough to say, the feelings I buried so deep, even from myself. But then I typed: "Hey, I’m looking forward to seeing you, but I need to apologize for… opening that thing.”

The words felt inadequate, awkward. That "thing"—the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about—wasn’t just the casual touch. It was the boundary I had crossed, a moment that felt both forbidden and inevitable. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it directly, but the memory of that touch, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her body under my fingertips, haunted me.

Her reply came quickly but danced around the truth. She spoke of her new life, the adventures she was having, the friends she had made, but she never mentioned that moment. She left it untouched, as though it had never happened. I stared at the screen for a long time, my heart beating erratically. She had read my words. But why had she ignored that part of me? Was it something she wanted to forget? Or was it simply too painful to acknowledge? I couldn’t shake the feeling that the tension between us, unspoken yet palpable, was now thicker than ever.

But even in the silence, I couldn’t let go of her. Every time I closed my eyes, I could almost feel her presence—her warmth, her scent, the way she had always made the world feel like it stopped spinning when she was near. And yet, she was miles away, unreachable. That yearning, that need to touch her again, had become a part of me, something I couldn’t shake, no matter how I tried.

Then, one day, I found myself in her new country, standing on the threshold of her new life, unsure of what I hoped to find. She wasn’t home yet—she was at college. The anticipation coursed through me, thick and unyielding. I had imagined this moment for so long—the reunion, the embrace, the sweetness of simply being near her again. But when I stepped out of the cab, I was met with an empty street, the silence pressing in on me. She wasn’t there.

I stood there, my pulse racing, until I saw her—just a flash of movement in the crowd, a gleam of something familiar that made my heart catch in my chest.

Her smile hit me like a bolt of lightning, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. It was the same smile—the one that had always left me weak in the knees, the one that could stop time. But she was different now. She was no longer the girl I had left behind—she was a woman now, confident and self-assured, her body radiating a new energy. Still, as her eyes met mine, I saw the same old Menka, the girl I couldn’t forget.

When she wrapped her arms around me, everything inside me stilled. Her body pressed against mine, and I could feel the heat of her skin, the softness of her curves. She smelled the same—jasmine and something wild, intoxicating. The embrace was tender, but there was something else there, something electric, something that flickered between us. I wanted to pull her closer, to feel her against me more, but I didn’t know if I could. It had been years, and I couldn’t tell if she still felt the same way.

"I missed you," I whispered, the words thick with longing. She tilted her head back, and for a split second, our faces were inches apart.

Her lips, so close, so tempting. The years of silence, the unspoken tension, hung in the air between us. I had to fight every instinct to pull away, to close the gap between us, to kiss her. But instead, I held her tighter, allowing myself to breathe her in, to absorb her presence as if it were the only thing that could make me feel whole again.

For days after, I stayed with her family, fitting into their lives like an outsider who had somehow found a place among them. But with Menka, it was different. Every moment together felt charged with something more than simple friendship or familiarity. The way her fingers brushed against mine as she passed me a glass of water, the way her breath quickened when our eyes met across the room—it was all loaded, heavy with unspoken words, desires neither of us dared to voice.

I saw it in her eyes—she was challenging me. She was daring me, teasing me in the way only she knew how. "You need to take more risks," she’d say with a mischievous smile, her voice light, almost playful. But her eyes… her eyes told a different story. There was a fire there, a silent invitation I couldn’t ignore. I wanted to be brave, to take the risk she was offering, but every time I moved closer, fear pulled me back.

But as the days passed, that fear began to fade, replaced by something darker. My desire for her had never truly left, but now, it was more desperate, more consuming. Every time I saw her, I could feel it growing. The tension between us, the ache that had started years ago, was now unbearable. I couldn’t keep pretending. I had to know what it felt like to finally cross that line.

One evening, I returned home after a long, exhausting day, every muscle in my body weighed down by the grind of the hours. But when I opened the door, I was greeted by her laughter—clear, melodic, and utterly inviting. It filled the space like sunlight, chasing away every shadow, every ounce of fatigue. She was talking to her family, but there was something in the way her voice danced, a warmth that made the air feel lighter, more charged. Still, it was her eyes that found me. They were full of something—something deep, unspoken, yet tantalizingly distant. Each glance from her sent a wave of confusion through me, pulling me in deeper, leaving me more lost than before.

That night, we found ourselves side by side on the couch, the flicker of the TV casting shadows over our faces. We were pretending to watch a movie, but neither of us was truly focused. I settled at one end of the couch, desperate to create some distance, to tame the raw heat building inside me. But it didn’t matter. The pull between us was undeniable. It was magnetic—no words were needed. Slowly, almost without conscious thought, I shifted closer. She noticed, of course. She always did. But we didn’t speak of it. There was no need to. The tension in the room had already spoken volumes.

It wasn’t long before I found myself lying back, my head resting gently in her lap. The warmth of her skin against my cheek sent a jolt of electricity through me, something deep and uncontrollable. I could feel her every breath, the soft scent of her hair weaving its way into my senses, drowning out everything else. The proximity was overwhelming. Every inch of her seemed to hum with that same quiet, forbidden energy that had always pulled me toward her. I could feel the heat radiating from her body, the soft tension in her muscles as she moved ever so slightly beneath me. It was impossible to ignore. We both felt it—this fragile, dangerous edge we were teetering on, but neither of us had the courage to cross it.

I shifted again, this time tilting my head to rest against her chest. I could hear her heartbeat beneath my ear, a steady rhythm that both calmed and stirred me in ways I couldn’t explain. It was then that a memory from the past—an afternoon a year ago—flooded my mind. That almost-touch. That almost-crossed line. The way she had been so close, so intoxicating, yet just out of reach. And now, it was as if we were reliving that moment, but this time, everything felt different. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was charged.

Her breath caught, just barely. I couldn’t tell if it was from the movie or from something else—something deeper, something far more dangerous. My body was screaming for me to kiss her, to finally close the gap, to press my lips to hers and let everything we had been avoiding come rushing to the surface. But I hesitated. Was it fear that stopped me? Or the terrifying idea of what would happen if I finally gave in?

Frozen in place, I waited for her to make the first move, but as if on cue, the silence was broken by a faint creak from somewhere in the house. The spell shattered. My heart pounded, my body pulling away involuntarily, and the ache of longing in my chest intensified. The moment had passed, but the tension—the raw, suffocating tension—lingered in the air. Neither of us spoke. We just retreated, back into our own spaces, the distance between us now a chasm of unspoken words and desires neither of us could acknowledge.

Lying in bed that night, I couldn’t erase the memory of her. The warmth of her body, the scent of her skin—her presence still lingered in the room, pressing against me like a constant pull. I replayed the night over and over in my mind, obsessing over every subtle shift, every fleeting touch. My body ached with longing, but it was more than just physical desire. It was a deeper hunger, one that gnawed at me from the inside out. It wasn’t just her body I craved—it was her, all of her, the connection we had avoided for so long.

I reached for the only release I could find in that moment, my hands trembling as I gave in to the need. The thought of her consumed me—her skin, her lips, the way her body felt under my fingertips. The release that followed was intense, overwhelming. It wasn’t just about the physical act—it was the emotional release, the culmination of everything we had built up between us. The guilt was there, yes. The fear. But the desire was stronger. And as the tremors of my body faded, I realized something: it wasn’t just her body I had been longing for. It was the connection, the intimacy, the unspoken bond that had always pulsed between us.

Afterward, I lay there, still, surrounded by her memory like a thick, suffocating fog. I wanted to hold on to that moment, to preserve it, but I also knew the darkness was creeping in. Fear still lingered—fear of what would happen if I confronted her. Fear that I would never have the courage to face what was between us.

The next morning, everything seemed normal. We exchanged pleasantries, talked about mundane things. But I could feel it—the shift. The tension was palpable, thick in the air between us. I could see it in the way she moved around me, the way her gaze flitted away when it lingered just a moment too long. She felt it too. I could see it in her eyes—the same fear, the same hesitation. But what terrified me most was the way the longing between us seemed to deepen every time we were close.

One evening, she came out of the shower, her hair damp, skin still glistening with water. The scent of her—fresh, intoxicating—wrapped around me before she even entered the room. I barely heard the words she said, something about the water being cold, but all I could focus on was her, the way she moved. The way her skin shimmered in the soft light, water droplets tracing her curves like a slow, deliberate touch.

Every part of me burned with the need to cross the line, to reach out and pull her close, to let everything out. She mentioned something about waxing her body, preparing for a wedding. But all I could think about was the version of her I had once known—the version of her that had been free, unguarded. The memory of her smooth, bare skin, the way she had let me in, so raw and unfiltered—it set my heart pounding all over again.

The wedding itself was a blur, but every accidental touch, every brief brush of her body against mine, was a fire that threatened to consume me. The way her body felt pressed against mine as we danced—so close, so painfully close, but not close enough—was maddening. It was as if the space between us was filled with unspoken promises. Every movement of her body felt like a silent invitation to something more.

I wanted it. I wanted her. I wanted to cross that line, to close that gap, but fear still held me back. I couldn’t tell if it was fear of losing her—or fear of what would happen if I let myself have her.

But that desire, that ache, continued to build. It consumed me. I told myself I could ignore it, that it would fade, that I could live with this hunger gnawing at me. But I knew the truth. It was insatiable. There was no escaping it. The more I tried to resist, the darker it became—this hunger for her, for us, for the connection we had never dared to face.

And one night, in a reckless moment of desperation, I broke into her diary. I needed to know—did she feel it too? Was there something in her words, something hidden in the way she wrote, that mirrored what I couldn’t bring myself to say?

But when I read through the pages, I found nothing. Only fragments of others, fleeting thoughts that had nothing to do with me. And the emptiness that followed was unbearable. The ache inside me deepened, unbearable in its intensity. Had I crossed a line? Was this worse than what I had done before, when I almost touched her in that forbidden way?

The guilt clung to me like a second skin, but so did the longing. It was a question I could never ask her, a question I could never let her answer.

my mind, and it wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t just a fleeting idea—it was a raw, primal urge that thrummed beneath my skin, clawing its way to the surface. The hunger that had festered inside me for years, the need that had gnawed at my every thought, surged now in a way that I couldn’t ignore. What if, just for a moment, I could make her feel what I felt? What if I could transfer every desperate part of me into her—my need, my desire, my aching longing? What if I could make her mine, in the most intimate, unspoken way? What if the simplest act of handing her a glass of water could be the doorway to something far darker, far more powerful?

I filled the glass, my hand trembling, a violent pulse racing through my veins. It was a reckless, irrational decision. But it felt like the only one that mattered. This was a moment I could not waste. I didn’t care about the consequences. I didn’t care about the world around me. My gaze fixed on her, as if the very air between us was charged with an energy I couldn’t escape. I needed her to feel me, to sense every part of me that had been buried so deep.

The glass felt heavier than it should have been in my hand, like a weight I couldn’t shake. I glanced around quickly—no one was watching. In that split second, the room seemed to shrink, the space between us closing in until there was nothing but her and me. My pulse pounded in my ears as I lowered my pants, exposing myself to the glass. Every breath was a struggle, my body trembling with the forbidden act I was about to commit. I didn’t care about the risk. I didn’t care about anything except getting as close to her as I possibly could.

I positioned myself over the glass, barely able to breathe, the tightness in my chest almost unbearable. I closed my eyes for a second, and then, without hesitation, without second thoughts, I let go—my essence spilling into the water. It felt like surrender, like everything I had hidden from the world for so long was being given to her in one desperate moment. I could already taste the madness in my mouth. There was no turning back from this. I had crossed a line, and it was too late to regret it.

When I handed her the glass, my heart slammed painfully in my chest. My fingers brushed hers—a fleeting touch, but enough to set my entire body on fire. It wasn’t just a touch. It was a shock, a spark of something wild and uncontained. She took the glass from me, and for a moment, the world seemed to freeze. I watched her lips press to the rim where mine had been, and my mind spiraled. She was tasting me now, my hunger, my need, all of it mingling with the water she drank. I imagined it—my desire, my desperation, pouring into her, piece by piece.

Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and I saw something flicker in them—a moment of hesitation, a question, something so brief and yet so heavy. I felt it deep within me, a shift in the air between us. My breath caught in my throat. She had to feel it. She had to know. Everything I had given her, every part of me that I had surrendered in that glass, had to resonate with her. The silence that stretched between us was thick with unspoken words, loaded with something that had only just begun to take root.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft, distant—but somehow it felt like a blade, cutting through me. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I could only stand there, watching her, my entire being consumed by the pull of the moment, by the raw energy thrumming between us.

She drank from the glass, and I could still taste the remnants of my desperation in the air, mingling with the cool water that had passed her lips. I could feel it in the way her fingers had touched mine, in the way she avoided my gaze afterward, as if the weight of what had passed between us was suddenly too much to bear.

The tension between us grew unbearable. Every movement, every glance, felt like an electric current sparking between us, igniting something dark and insatiable inside me. I could feel her pulling away, but it only intensified the need inside me, the hunger to claim her, to make her feel what I had given her—to make her want it.

I replayed the moment in my mind over and over, every detail—the feel of her hand against mine, the taste of the water, the way she had looked at me, the way her lips brushed the glass. It consumed me. Every thought, every waking moment, was filled with her. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know what I had done, what I had given her—but she had to. I couldn’t let go of the idea that I could make her understand.

And as the days passed, the silence between us became a constant ache, gnawing at me, pulling me further into the depths of this obsession. She avoided me. She kept her distance, but I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t stop thinking about the taste of her lips on that glass, the lingering connection we shared, a connection that burned hotter with every passing second. I had crossed a line, and now I needed to make her feel it, to make her realize that there was no escaping this pull between us.

The more she pulled away, the more I needed her. The more I wanted her. I was spiraling, and I knew it. The hunger was growing, uncontrollable, turning into something darker, something that I could no longer ignore.

There was no going back. I had given her everything, and I would do anything to make her feel it, to make her want it.

I used to wake Menka up every morning. But that day—it was different. She was the one waking me. Her touch, gentle yet purposeful, was like a spark setting off a chain of reactions deep inside me. It wasn’t just a casual gesture, it was intimate. Too intimate. More intimate than anything we’d ever shared before. Her fingertips brushed my skin lightly—just a featherlight touch, but it sent a bolt of need straight through me, my entire body reacting, almost too eagerly. My eyes fluttered open, heart pounding in my chest, and there she was—standing over me, her presence so overwhelming it made the air feel thicker.

She was gazing at me, her eyes full of something I couldn’t quite name—something dark, something that mirrored my own emotions. It was raw. It was desire. And I knew, she felt it too.

I froze, every inch of me wired with anticipation, the tension thick and suffocating. I wanted her so badly, but at the same time, I was terrified. If I moved, if I made the wrong gesture, it could shatter this fragile moment. The moment I’d dreamed of, the moment I’d needed.

But as I lay there, my pulse racing, it wasn’t just the soft warmth of her hand brushing mine that made everything feel different. No. My mind was still tangled in the remnants of the dream I’d just had—so vivid, so real. I had been inside her, taking her, pushing into her with a hunger I couldn’t control. I could still feel the heat of her skin beneath my fingertips, the wetness of her lips parting as I kissed her, the slick, warm, welcoming tightness of her body around me. I had felt her—completely—and I had lost myself in her.

I hadn’t realized it, but my hand was still moving, sliding against my body, slipping into the waistband of my underwear, still caught in the throes of that dream. The dream where she was mine—every inch of her, her soft moans, her breathless gasps filling my ears, her body shaking as I drove her wild. And there, in the quiet of the morning, in the exact moment that Menka’s eyes met mine—I was touching myself.

My fingers froze. The warmth of her hand was still hovering just above mine, but now I felt exposed. I felt like a voyeur of my own desires, my shameful, desperate need laid bare before her. My heart hammered in my chest as I realized the position I was in.

The tension between us felt unbearable, like a string pulled tight, about to snap. The silence in the room was deafening. I could hear the sound of my own breath, shallow and erratic, as my body burned with both arousal and the sharp sting of embarrassment. She saw me. She had to have seen me.

Menka’s gaze flickered downward, and in that instant, I saw the flash of something—something like understanding, but also something darker, something that mirrored my own hunger. Her eyes glinted with curiosity, but there was no judgment, only a pulse of heat that thrummed between us.

I wanted to kiss her right there, to take what I needed—to claim her, to show her the depth of what I felt. But fear held me back. Fear of rejection, fear of pushing too far too fast, fear of losing this fragile thread between us.

But her hand brushed mine again, just lightly, sending another electric shock through me. I was beyond reasoning, beyond holding back. The ache in my body had become unbearable. My pulse thundered in my ears as I tried, tried to swallow the raw need that surged through me.

I couldn’t hold back anymore. I wanted her. I needed her. I would have her.

But instead of acting on it, I let her lead me outside to show me the first snow of my life. Her fingers wrapped around mine, the heat of her hand almost enough to burn me, but I couldn’t let go. The chill of the winter air didn’t numb the fire inside me—it only made the heat between us burn brighter. I watched her with my entire being, but the storm inside me was raging. My mind was a cacophony of images—her body beneath mine, the way she would look as I moved inside her, her gasps filling the air. I wanted to devour her. To pull her into me, to claim her like she had always been mine. To taste her, feel her skin against mine, make her feel the urgency, the hunger in every inch of me. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not like this.

No, I had to keep control. I had to.

But the storm inside me raged, swirling with desire, growing darker and more possessive. She was standing there, inches away, and I could smell her—her perfume, the sweet scent of jasmine and vanilla, mixing with the cold, sharp air. It was intoxicating. Every breath I took was filled with her. I couldn’t escape it. I didn’t want to.

I wanted to take her right there in the snow. To press her against the cold earth, to feel the heat of her body clashing with the ice. To hear her moan beneath me, to make her mine in ways I couldn’t even fathom.

But I stayed still, watching her, my body trembling with need.

Time passed, and we both grew up. But I never stopped thinking about her, even when I moved out of Menka’s house. That absence—her presence missing from my days, the empty spaces where she once filled every room—it hurt. Every corner of that house had smelled like her. Every moment, every touch, every shared glance had been a thread binding us together, but now, all that was left was a gaping hole.

It was a spring day when I found myself back in her presence. We were sitting in the backyard, the warm sun beating down on us, but it didn’t soothe me. No, it was the heat between us that burned. I laid my head in her lap, feeling her body underneath me, the warmth of her skin burning through her clothes. Every inch of me ached for more. I wanted to reach up, to pull her closer, to kiss her, to taste her, to drown in her. But I didn’t. The moment slipped away too quickly, interrupted by a sound, a noise, or maybe just my own fear creeping in.

In that moment, as I lay there, I felt the growing pulse of desire flood my mind. It wasn’t just her scent I noticed. No. It was the scent between her legs—the soft musk of her arousal, the memory of the wetness I knew would be waiting for me if I touched her there. I imagined the slickness, how she would feel beneath my hands, beneath my lips. The heat, the tenderness, the urgency. I imagined sliding my fingers into that warmth, the way her breath would catch in her throat as I made her mine. The thought of her wetness consuming me, filling my thoughts with lust, with a dark craving I couldn't control.

The soft fabric of her dress was a barrier, one that I imagined ripping away with little thought. I’d expose her. I’d taste her.

I wanted to hear her gasps, the sound of her pleasure so intimate, so wrong, but so right. My body burned with the fantasy, and I had to bite down hard on the edge of my desire to stop myself from reaching up and pulling her close, claiming her, right there in the middle of the backyard.

The silence between us had grown—unspoken, yet undeniable. I was losing her. And I felt it in my bones.

Then came the summer. The water park.

I saw her then—really saw her. The girl I had known was gone, replaced by the woman she had become. She was no longer a fantasy, but a living, breathing desire. The bikini she wore clung to her body like a second skin, and every curve, every dip, every inch of her was burned into my mind. The way her hips moved, the way her breasts pressed against the wet fabric, the way the water trickled down her skin—it was all too much. The temptation to rip her bikini off, to feel her body against mine, to possess her completely was overwhelming.

I wanted to tear that bikini from her, expose her to the world—and to me—completely. No one else would see her this way. No one else would touch her, would experience her. She was mine. Mine.

Her nipples, hard and perky from the cold water, made the desperation worse. I could see the outline of them through the thin fabric, each hardening in the chill of the water. I wanted to feel them in my mouth, to take her until she screamed, until she couldn’t remember her own name. But she wasn’t mine yet. She wasn’t truly mine, and that thought ate away at me. She was so close, but still so far.

Her eyes met mine then. And in them, I saw something—something dangerous. A flicker of understanding, of desire. She knew. She knew what I wanted, what we both wanted, and there was no turning back.

That night, alone in my bed, I couldn’t escape the images in my mind. Every part of me ached with frustration, with hunger. The feeling of her skin, soft beneath my hands. Her moans, low and urgent, as I took her, kissed her, marked her. The way her body would move with mine, the slick heat of her pressing against me.

I imagined myself inside her, the desperate need taking over as I thrust into her, over and over, losing myself in the feeling of her warmth, her wetness. My hand slid under my waistband, my fingers wrapping around myself as I imagined her beneath me, giving herself to me, trembling in my arms as I claimed her.I came hard, my body shaking, my chest heaving, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. I needed more. And I knew that when I finally had her, nothing would stop me.

I would take her completely. I would make her mine—and the world would know it.

Then came the day I went to her college orientation. She was alone—her family couldn’t make it. I couldn’t let her go through it alone. I had to be there. When they asked parents or guardians to stand, I stood for her. I was the one who claimed Menka in front of a massive crowd that day. Of course she was mine. And I had to claim her. If I could have—if the world would have let me—I would’ve taken her right then, made love to her in that very moment, right there in front of everyone. I wanted to mark her. I needed her to know—she was mine.

Pride surged in my chest as I stood there beside her. Proud to be the one she looked to. Proud to be the one in her life. Proud that she belonged to me in ways no one else could touch. But beneath that pride… something else stirred. Desire. That ache, that insatiable hunger that had been lying dormant for so long, now twisted inside me, rising like a storm.

I thought, We’ll be alone again. Finally, I can have her.

She was going to the same college, and for the first time in years, I thought: This is it. This is our chance. We’ll reconnect. I’ll finally have what I’ve always wanted.

But as I stood there beside her, the gap between us seemed to stretch further with every passing second. The space between our bodies felt infinite. I could feel it—the walls she had built around herself, around us. I could see the cracks in everything we once shared. It was as if she had already moved on. And I… I was still standing in the past, clutching at a memory that was slipping away faster than I could hold onto it.

I thought we were getting closer. But in reality, I was losing her.

And that was when I knew—it was slipping through my fingers.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. The future I had envisioned with her was vanishing. She wasn’t mine anymore. And I couldn’t stop it. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I wanted to pull her back to me, I couldn’t make it happen. She was slipping away, and I was powerless to stop it.

But then, one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. My chest tightened, my hands trembling with desperation, my body shaking with a need I couldn’t control. I had to confront her. I couldn’t go on pretending. I couldn’t live with the silence.

“Menka,” my voice trembled, desperate, “I feel like I’m losing you. Like there’s this wall between us, and I don’t know why.” I stared at her, searching her face for something—anything—that would tell me she still felt the pull too. But she didn’t even look at me. She looked away, distant, as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience in her life. The connection we once had? It was gone.

Her words cut through me like a blade. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she whispered, her eyes flickering away, refusing to meet mine. “Things change.”

And that was it. That moment shattered me. She was gone. Whatever had existed between us—whatever love, whatever desire, whatever connection—had been swept away. I was left standing there, empty. Helpless.

I watched her walk away from me—again. And deep down, I knew that was the last time I would ever see her in the way I wanted to. I wasn’t going to be the one she called. I wasn’t going to be the one she turned to for comfort, for passion. She had chosen to leave me behind. And I was left with nothing but memories… broken, empty memories that I couldn’t escape.

The months that followed were hell. I tried to move on, to let her go, but every time I saw her—at college, at work—she was everywhere. But she wasn’t mine anymore. We barely spoke. The silence between us was suffocating, and with every day that passed, the ache deepened. She was with someone else. A part of me couldn’t bear to think about it. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to see her with someone else. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else touching her, loving her the way I knew I could.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Every second. Every minute. My mind became consumed by her. I couldn’t let go. She was mine. Always mine. My Menka. My precious.

I couldn’t shake her. Even when she wasn’t there. Even when I was in the middle of the most mundane moments of my life—sitting at my desk, on the train to work, in a crowded room—I was still there. I was still with her. I could smell her, feel her. Every touch, every kiss, every whisper we had shared in those stolen moments before everything changed… they haunted me. She was inside me. I couldn’t escape it. I didn’t want to escape it. I craved it.

At night, in the quiet of my room, it was worse. The darkness consumed me. I could still feel her. The weight of her body against mine. The warmth of her skin. The taste of her lips. The way she trembled when I kissed her, the way her body responded to my touch. Every night, it played out in my mind. The fantasies. The memories. They were endless. They were all I had left.

Every night, I lay awake, my hands moving without thought, tracing the memory of her body, of how she fit perfectly beneath me. Her breath, her moans, her lips parted in desire. Every detail was burned into me, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t forget. She was always there. She will always be mine.

I couldn’t stop. No matter how many times I tried to focus on anything else, my mind would return to her. To the way her skin felt under my fingertips. To the way her body would melt into mine. To the way she would beg for me. I couldn’t get enough.

The jealousy consumed me when I saw her with him. Someone else got to kiss her. Someone else got to touch her. Someone else got to make her moan with pleasure. And I—I was nothing. I was left with nothing but my obsession.

But no matter how many times I saw her with him, no matter how many nights I spent lost in my own fantasies, I would never stop. I couldn’t. I was addicted. Every waking moment, every breath I took, was filled with the need for her. The hunger. The craving.

She had moved on, yes. She had someone else now. But that didn’t matter. She was mine. She would always be mine. No one else could take her from me. I couldn’t let that happen.

I won’t let it happen.

Even after all this time, after all the silence, after everything that had changed between us—I still wanted her. I still needed her. And I would have her again. No matter what it took.