You get so used to being alone, with all of its beauties and frustrations. It grows comfortable like a second skin. Then as soon as someone disrupts that — breaks the silence of a narrative you’ve been building in your head over and over and over — it feels. Strange. They hold the body you have spent weeks, months, or however long building an armor around. They ask you to soften. It is both sweet and all at once heartbreaking. You’ve gotten used to the lies, the flowers we tell each other to uphold the preservation, the appearance, of love or admiration. When at the heart of it we are animals. We want sex. We want warmth. We are children who need to be held. So when the buzz wears off and you are quiet in each other’s arms, you hear only your heartbeats, your breath, and the boom of your own thoughts reminding you that it’s likely a lie — nothing special, a fantasy or momentary comfort — that you shouldn’t trust anyone, and go back to being alone.