I think I’m obsessed with the way people talk after sex. The rawness of it, the unraveling. Not sex itself—no, sex is almost always… not what you think it’ll be. It’s not what movies promised or what your own mind built it up to be. It’s hands and limbs and sometimes good, sometimes okay, sometimes you’re just waiting for it to end. But, the moments after.
It’s messy, but not in the way sex is messy. It’s messy in the way people are messy, when their guard drops and the words spill out in no particular order. The room smells like skin and warmth and whatever happened before, and somehow, this feels more intimate than the act itself.
They’ll say something random, like how their mom used to burn toast every morning, or they’ll ask you about a scar you forgot you even had. They’ll let a sentence fall out that feels so tender, so unguarded, and you just know they didn’t mean to share it—but now it’s yours. And maybe you say something back, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re just lying there wondering how you ended up in this moment with this person you thought you knew but didn’t, not really.