She is angry, hurt, she is beyond feeling like talking about it, beyond feeling like punishing him and into the space where she doubts he can do this, doubts that he is capable of delivering what she needs, doubts that he can make her happy. And she adores him, she hates feeling like this.
This is not the first time… The first time, she explained patiently how it felt for her to put pieces of herself out there for him. He said he understood. Then it happened again, and he profusely apologised, he couldn’t believe that he could affect her in that way, he couldn’t believe she needed this from him, he couldn’t believe she was vulnerable, somehow. She explained it, all of it, she punished him. And now… again… again… she felt her heart breaking even as she paced the room to control her anger.
“Do I have to tell you EVERY fucking time how it feels for me? Empty… Fucking. Empty!”
She second guesses herself, which she also hates. Surely, surely, he should know by now what she needs. She wonders if she will cry if she lets him go, she wonders if he will. She tests the feeling, but quickly puts it aside.
She thinks about what to do about him instead.