solo [ˈsəʊləʊ]


by oneself; alone


Last night, I fell ill.

Battling with the umpteenth stomach ache, I spent most of the night in quite a lucid state, mentally writing down the bones of this very post.

I realized last night that I hate being alone in bed. I hate having no-one to hold on to and no-one to randomly kvetch to. It’s just me and my thoughts and that’s frightning me.

More than anything, I need to feel a presence next to me. I need the sound of another human being breathing to keep me calm. An occasional touch, a whispered word, just anything.

In lieu of that, I grabbed my pillow and held on to it for dear life. It was the most desperate night. I needed someone to calm me down and tell me that I’ll get better. I needed someone to rub my back to ease the tension.

I just needed.

As I’m writing this, I realize that my longing for physical contact has gone way beyond the need to get shtupped by a handsome Greek God or anything sexual.

It is a need to be held, a need to be loved and appreciated. And a need for intimacy. God, I need intimacy. I need to be close to someone, I need to feel a warm body against mine.

Being alone. I can’t do it anymore.

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