Page 1 of Before I Lost You

PART 1: THREADED TOGETHER

Chapter 1

BEFORE EVERYTHING

I’ve told myself that loneliness is an illusion. That you can’t actually feel lonely when you’re clearly surrounded by people all the time. But I’m beginning to think that maybe I’ve been trying to convince myself so I don’t spiral, so my carefully threaded life doesn’t unravel. No matter how many men I bring home with me night after night, it always ends the same. I’m present, but not. Physically here, but emotionally disconnected. It’s a song I know the rhythm to, one I dance to frequently.

Kiss. Fuck. Leave. Repeat.

And I feel absolutely nothing.

His hands are on my skin, but my mind is elsewhere—somewhere with a stranger I keep seeing in my dreams. I can never see his face, but I know I love him. Somehow, I’m certain of that. It makes no sense, but it feels real to me. I feel the ache, the longing, but he’s unreachable. I’m inside someone who means nothing to me, thinking about someone who doesn’t even exist.

“Conrad.” The man under me moans. “Fuck, right there.”

I close my eyes tightly and pound into him from behind, and fuck, I can’t even remember his fucking name. Is it Frank? Paul? Those don’t even sound remotely similar. I’ve messed this all up.

It doesn’t feel good. I know it should—all sex should. But it seems that’s no longer enough for me. All I can think of ishim, the man from my dream. I shake my head, trying to focus, and bite my bottom lip so hard I taste blood. I need to do this. I need to prove to myself that I’m not broken. For the sake of my mental health. I need to be able to carry on as I always have. I need to put this little obsession behind me.

He’s not even real.

I grab onto the man’s hips and fuck him at an angle that has him clutching the sheets and moaning gibberish. If this isn’t good for me, the least I can do is make it good for him. It’s not his fault that my mind is a fucking mess right now. I hit his prostate over and over and feel him begin to shake, and when his hole clamps around my cock, my balls draw up and I empty into the condom.

I don’t even make a sound.

I should’ve felt more, done more, been into it at the very least. But none of that happened, and I think he can tell. I pull out quietly and go into his bathroom, wetting a rag and handing it to him so he can clean himself up, then lock myself in the bathroom and dispose of the condom. I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror. My black hair is disheveled, green eyes red-rimmed as if I’ve been crying, even though I haven’t been. Even my bottom lip looks fucked, some blood still on it. But there’s something about my face that makes me pause, and it’s not necessarily anything physical. It’s that I look absolutely miserable, and I know I need to get out of here. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, and I’m sure I’m close to doing just that.

I exit the bathroom to see him sitting up on the bed, looking at me expectantly, and come to a sudden halt. We stare at eachother for a beat, and then he looks down at his hands. When we make eye contact again, I know I hurt him.

“You didn’t like it, did you?” he asks, green eyes sad.

“I’m not—” I stutter. “I—”

“It’s okay.” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair and pulling the blankets over his lap. “Please lock the door on your way out.”

I nod, but he’s already turning away from me and reaching for his phone, a clear dismissal. It should sting, but I feel nothing, and that’s a red flag. I need to get the fuck out of here.

My jeans are on the floor next to the bed, and I pull them on, then continue walking around the apartment in search of the rest of my clothes. My shirt is by the front door, and my shoes are in front of the couch. When I first got here, this seemed promising. I was even excited when I was prepping him. But then it felt wrong. Being inside of him. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe I’m going crazy. It’s the only explanation.

I get dressed quickly, then turn the lock on the doorknob on my way out. I walked here from the bar, and my penthouse isn’t far, so it makes sense to walk there too. The streets of the Seaport District in Boston are empty at this time of night, and most would maybe feel unsafe walking around in the middle of the night, but I’m not scared.

Maybe I’m passively suicidal. Or maybe I don’t give a fuck about anything. I’m no longer sure. What I do know is that I’m living a life that doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Yeah, I have the job as a pharmaceutical chemical engineer that I worked really hard for. I have the dream penthouse that was on my vision board for years. But something is missing. There’s a void in my life that I can’t seem to fill, no matter how much I try. And I’ve been trying very hard. I just think maybe I’ve been doing it wrong this entire time.

I’ve considered maybe I need to stop hooking up and think about settling down, but I’ve never found anyone who has made me want to commit. No one who has stolen my breath away, made my hands shake, or my heart race. I don’t want a gentle love. I want fireworks, an explosion inside my chest. I want to fucking feel something big and know that it’s reciprocated. I want to stop feeling so alone in everything.

Rain begins to pour, and I curse. I didn’t bring an umbrella or a raincoat, but I wouldn’t have anyway. It’s May and hot as hell. By the time I make it to my building, my clothes are sticking to my skin, and I’m somehow shivering. The doorman looks at me with wide eyes and nods in greeting, and I nod back, going to the elevator and letting myself up.

All I can think about is how shitty I was to that guy, and I really do want to apologize. But I also don’t want to pour salt on the wound. Because what am I supposed to say? Sorry, I didn’t like fucking you? It would make everything so much worse. It’s not his fault that my mind is a fucked-up place to be lately. The only person I look forward to seeing is Emerson, my best friend. Thankfully, we work together, so we see each other almost every day.

The elevator opens with a ding, and my living room comes into view. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the far end show me a grand view of the city, and I exhale shakily as it dawns on me how quiet and empty my home feels. Because it’s not a home. It’s just a place to lay my head down at night. Nothing is tying me to this penthouse; I could sell it tomorrow and not miss it at all. It seems that’s how I feel about everything in my life right now.

Detached.

Empty.

It’s a shame considering how badly I wanted this.

I walk through the dark living room and hallway until I get to my bedroom, and then I make it into the bathroom with thelights still off. I light the candle next to the sink and turn on the shower faucet, switching it to the hot setting. I need to burn right now. Need to feel something. Anything at all.