A Dom I used to play with messaged me today. It’s been months—maybe longer. Long enough that I’d almost convinced myself I’d stopped wondering if he ever thought of me. If he missed the way I softened when he got sharp. If he remembered how much I gave, even when I pretended not to want anything in return.

When the notification lit up, I thought maybe he was checking in. Maybe I meant something more than a scene. Maybe this was one of those rare, quiet moments where someone reaches back—not because they want something, but because they remember. Because they care.

But all he wanted to know was where I lived. And once I said I’d moved, he didn’t respond.

It felt like the entire stretch of vulnerability between us—all the kneeling, the trust, the ache I never quite voiced—got folded into a single unanswered message. He didn’t ask how I’ve been. Didn’t say he missed the way we played. Didn’t even say goodbye.

And I knew, even then, that I was more invested than he was. I let him mark me up and called it something sacred, even as I tried to pretend it wasn’t more than play. But I wanted more. Not just more of him, but more from him—something steady. Something real. Something that didn’t dissolve the moment the scene ended.

What hurts isn’t that he moved on. It’s that I still ache for the idea of him. Not even him, exactly, but the hope that someone could want all of me. The neediness. The intensity. The soft parts that come out when I’m handled with cruelty and care.