When your abstinence meets a fine memory with Wi-Fi
She should’ve known it was him before the “Wishing you well....”
Men like him don’t die; they resurface like glitter you thought you swept up two heartbreaks ago.
He messaged her out of nowhere, after years of silence, wrapped in the scent of someone else’s perfume. Claimed he’d forgotten some things due to hospital-related memory loss. Selective amnesia or emotional landscaping, she wasn’t sure. But either way, a photo album of his face and his hands on her body rotated in her mind. Turned 30? Like that mattered.
She was vintage, he joked.
Almost ancient. With wisdom teeth and wounds that remembered him even if he didn’t remember the way she used to pop up unannounced. My God, the pop-ups!
She never meant to be that girl. The dramatic one who showed up, mascara threatening mutiny, catching him in a lie she already knew was true. But she liked him. Even worse, he liked her too. Just not enough to pick her. Or maybe just not enough to stop lying.
The math never math’ed with him. The timelines overlapped like bad foundation that’s layered too thick and still somehow patchy.
So why now?
Why “just thought about ya” after all these years?
Was it curiosity? Regret? Or just the ego’s version of, “Are you still mine in a place I never claimed you?”
She thought about replying. Something cool, witty. Maybe drop a “Look who’s alive,” or “Memory loss? That explains a lot.”
She told herself not to respond.
That lasted 2 hours.
Then his selfie popped up.
It wasn’t nudes. He wasn’t that reckless, but the effect was just as criminal. Damn. That jawline beneath the beard still had gall. And that smirk? Like he knew exactly what he did to her back then and what he might still be capable of.
She stared at it too long, phone lighting her face like it was the only altar she prayed at lately. Abstinence is easy until your past sends high-resolution temptation at 11 PM on a Wednesday. She hasn’t had sex in over a year. Her own choice. Abstinence isn’t about virtue; it’s about peace. Her body had been a warzone for too long, and she needed the ceasefire.
But that picture?
Whew! Her thighs remembered him before her brain gave permission.
He was still him.
Still annoyingly fine.
Still gazing like the last time they kissed hadn’t left her curled on the floor in the hallway of her own dignity.
So what now?
She tapped out a reply and erased it. Twice.
She didn’t owe him vulnerability, but she also didn’t owe herself another night of pretending she wasn’t lonely. Or curious.
Or aroused.
What’s worse than heartbreak?
Horny heartbreak.
It’s like sadness with a spice rub.
She decided not to answer just yet.
Instead, she turned her phone face down and whispered to herself,
“Girl, don’t go back just because you’re bored and he has cheekbones.”
But she also saved the photo.
You know. For healing purposes.
But the truth sat in her chest like expired wine. He wasn’t a surprise anymore. Just another man who found her soft, then left her hard.
Ghosts don’t haunt because they miss you. They haunt because they’re bored and know you still leave the light on.
Still, part of her wanted to know. What does he want this time?
And would she let him have it?
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