There’s something cruel about a man who sleeps soundly next to a woman dying of thirst.
Not a drop of cruelty in the way he breathes, slow, rhythmic, almost peaceful. His chest rises and falls in a pattern she used to match her own to, years ago. Back when sleep was shared. When the sheets remembered both their scents and no one turned away without a kiss.
Now, the sheets know distance. They’ve memorized the lines between them, not made by bodies, but by silence. Invisible fences. Soft sighs that go unheard. Pillows that face opposite walls like old lovers in a courtroom.
She lays on her side, eyes wide open, watching the faint light from his phone illuminate the hollow of his cheek. He fell asleep scrolling again. Thumb still half-curled from swiping. The screen dims every few seconds, casting him in shadow before waking again, as if even the phone can’t stand to let him go.
She wonders when it happened.
When she became the background noise.
When her love, once symphonic, became static.
Once upon a time, he would stay up just to watch her undo her day, removing earrings, rubbing lotion into her shoulders, twisting her hair into a loose bun. He’d lean against the doorway and say something stupid just to make her laugh. That laugh used to be his favorite part of the night. She knows because he told her. Told her in the way men do when they’re still in awe of you.
Now?
He doesn’t even notice if she laughs anymore.
The room is warm.
The bed is warmer.
But she is freezing inside.
That’s what no one tells you about loneliness.
It doesn’t always happen alone.
Sometimes it happens right next to the man who swore he would never let you feel it again.
She shifts beneath the covers. Not enough to wake him. Just enough to remind herself she’s alive. Just enough to hear the fabric move, because otherwise she might forget she has a body at all. It’s been that long since he touched it with intent.
Not sex. Not performance. Not habit.
Intention.
The kind of touch that says, I see you.
That says, I remember.
That says, You still undo me.
She can’t remember the last time she felt that kind of contact. And it’s not that she needs constant validation. She’s not that needy. Or at least, she wasn’t. Until she had to start asking for what used to pour from him like spring rain.
Now she feels like a cactus in a cracked pot. Still standing. Still reaching toward the light. But brittle. Fading. Hollow in the middle where the moisture used to be.
It’s not like he’s mean.
He doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t curse.
He doesn’t cheat, at least not that she knows.
But apathy?
Apathy is its own kind of violence.
Especially when it used to be love.
The ache starts in her throat. Like a lump that forgot how to move. She swallows, softly. Staring at the back of his head, wishing she could crawl inside his mind and figure out where she went wrong.
Or maybe she didn’t.
Maybe he just… got full.
She was the meal.
Now he’s fed.
She whispers to no one.
To herself. To the ceiling. To whatever spirit is keeping her from screaming.
“Will you water me?”
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… a whisper of herself.
Like a dry leaf still hanging from a branch.
Like a question she knows the answer to.
He shifts in his sleep. Not because he heard her. Just because his body’s tired.
She watches him adjust the pillow. Bury his face deeper. He looks peaceful. Like he doesn’t even know he’s sleeping through a storm.
A storm called her.
She used to be his dream girl.
That phrase keeps echoing.
She doesn’t even know where it came from — maybe a line in a song, maybe something he used to call her when they were tangled up in early mornings and promises.
But she remembers how it felt to be that.
To be wanted.
To be chosen — not just once, but over and over again.
Now she feels like a maintenance plan he’s defaulted on.
There was a time when his eyes lit up at the sight of her.
A time when he’d press his forehead to hers and whisper things that didn’t even make sense, but made her laugh anyway.
He used to bring her coffee just the way she liked it: two sugars, a splash of oat milk, extra hot. Not because she asked, but because he remembered.
Now, she can’t even remember the last time he looked at her face for longer than two seconds without glancing at his phone.
What kills love isn’t always betrayal.
Sometimes it’s the slow leak.
The unanswered questions.
The skipped check-ins.
The loss of curiosity.
Sometimes love dies when no one waters it.
She reaches for her journal on the nightstand.
Writes a single line.
“I am disappearing quietly.”
Then closes it.
No flourish. No dramatic poem. Just a statement. A truth she’s been carrying for weeks.
She doesn’t want to be dramatic.
She doesn’t want to be needy.
She doesn’t even want to leave.
She just wants to be watered.
Not flooded. Not drowned.
Just… seen.
Tended to. Cared for.
She looks at him again.
Still sleeping.
Still beautiful.
Still hers, technically.
But her heart feels like a house with the lights on and no one home.
She lies back down, eyes wide open, the ceiling more familiar than his body.
She doesn’t touch him.
She doesn’t cry.
She doesn’t reach across the divide.
She just waits.
To see if he’ll notice the sound of her withering.
To see if he’ll remember that dream girls don’t stay alive on memory alone.
To see if tomorrow…
maybe he’ll bring rain.