“What do I want? I want some coffee and to be alone,” I told him, fastening the lat button on my shirt. I couldn’t believe he had the audacity to ask me what I wanted after just telling me what he didn’t want: me. To tell you the truth, I didn’t want him. I didn’t want some label stuck to us and I didn’t want to fall in love with him, I just wanted to feel wanted. For the past couple of months we have been screwing around every chance we got and by our talk this morning, I could tell he thought I wanted more. Perhaps I give out that impression, that I need someone. Perhaps I do need someone, but I know that person is myself.

I am not easily satisfied no matter what the situation. Despite his beliefs, he doesn’t make me orgasm; he never has nor has he ever been close. I don’t mind, though. That is a concept most men cannot understand about me; it is about the process, not the ending. Maybe I only believe this because I have never truly felt satisfied in the bedroom, but I’d rather have little expectations than to be let down completely. The way he maneuvers out of the bed and into the bathroom tells me that he got all he wanted. He has always been a mystery to me, just one I never cared to find out. Here I was, having the time of my life being able to fuck any time I wanted to, but now he had to ruin it all just because he thought I wanted more.

At least I have a chance to leave the room now, I guess. I know me leaving without any goodbye will only further make him believe that my feelings are somewhat hurt and God, how I can’t live without him. I am not as pathetic as he thinks I am, but it isn’t worth my time to prove him otherwise.