I once had a boyfriend who, well he wasn't really a boyfriend, more of just a guy I was sleeping with, who I really thought I was in love with. I wasn't, incidentally, but that is not the point here. He used me for sex and company and had little respect for me. He would come over, sometimes after we had gone out, sometimes he would spend a whole week with me... But whatever, he would be at mine, we'd have unsatisfying sex and he would fall asleep clutching me like I would disappear if he didn't. I could never, and still can't, sleep whilst being that close to someone, so I would worm my way down out of his arms and out of bed. Silently. Almost frightened. I would then just go about my normal nocturnal activities; writing, smoking, online browsing etc. but that was always my most favourite part of the "relationship" because in that time... He was mine. He was in MY bed, breathing my air, dribbling on my pillows. And I could pretend that we were a couple, pretend that we were living together, that we had something more... I could pretend that in the morning he would love me.
Seven years later I find myself feeling the same thing; this time with my ex of five years, the father of my child. He came here for sex, no doubt, and I probably would have done it... But he fell asleep on the sofa while I was in the shower.. And here I am, watching him. Watching him and pretending that in the morning he will love me.
This is the man that was with me while I was in labour with our son, the man who has seen me poo. I have seen him in every possible light. I know every tiny cell on his body like the back of my hand... Better than that, even. The man that I was so sick of I refused to even look at him at all some days.
But somehow... I am now watching him sleep and regretting not looking at him more often before.
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