Chapter 7: Regret
The morning light cut through the gaps in the blinds, painting sharp lines across the rumpled sheets. Clara lay still, the memory of Jade’s body against hers a phantom weight, a pleasant soreness deep in her muscles. Then, the other memory surfaced, cold and unwelcome: David’s confused, hurt face in the café yesterday. The breakup.
He was a good guy. Stable. Kind. He remembered her birthday, brought her coffee when she was pulling all-nighters on a project, laughed at her stupid jokes. Was that so bad? Was a life of comfortable, predictable affection really something to throw away?
She rolled onto her back, staring at ceiling. The truth, hot and shameful, uncoiled in her gut. She was only questioning herself now because for the first time in her life, she’d been properly fucked. Ruined. Jade’s sheer, overwhelming size had filled a void in her she’d thought was just anatomical. The way Jade had looked at her, not with performative lust, but with a raw, consuming hunger that mirrored her own. David had never looked at her like that. David’s touch had never made her feel like her bones were turning to liquid and her mind was emptying of everything but sensation.
A sharp, insistent knock at the door shattered the silence.
Her heart leapt into her throat. She knew that knock. Pulling on a silk robe, she padded to the door and peered through the peephole. David stood there, his auburn hair messy, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He looked tired.
She opened the door. “David.”
“Hey.” He gave her a weak smile. “I, uh… I left my favourite hoodie here. The grey one. Mind if I grab it?”
It was a flimsy excuse. They both knew it. “Sure. Come in.”
He stepped inside, his presence immediately making the cozy apartment feel smaller. He glanced around, his eyes lingering on the bed, as if he could sense the ghost of Jade in the room. “How are you?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“I’m okay,” Clara said, crossing her arms over her chest. “A little confused.”
“Join the club.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Clara, was it really that bad? I thought we were happy.”
“We were comfortable, David. There’s a difference.”
“Comfortable isn’t a dirty word.” He took a step closer. “I loved you. I still do.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. This was the part where she was supposed to soften, to relent. This was the narrative: the good guy wins back the girl who made a mistake.
“I know you do,” she whispered.
He closed the distance between them, his hand coming up to cup her face. His touch was familiar, gentle. It didn’t set her on fire. “Let me just… let me show you,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her.
It was a nice kiss. Tender. It tasted of coffee and regret. His hands moved to the tie of her robe, loosening it. Clara let the silk slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. He looked at her body, at her full breasts and curvy hips, with an appreciation she knew was genuine. But it was a quiet appreciation. A museum-goer admiring a painting.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, leading her to the bed.
This was a mistake. Every cell in her body screamed it, even as she lay back on the sheets. She was using him. Using this to erase the memory of Jade, to convince herself that ‘comfortable’ was enough.
He undressed quickly, his athletic body familiar territory. His cock, already half-hard, was of a perfectly average size. Maybe a bit above average, if statistics are to be believed. It had never intimidated her. It had never thrilled her, either.
He kissed her neck, her collarbone, his movements practiced and considerate. He took his time, tracing the curves of her body with a reverence that felt, suddenly, like a condemnation. When he finally moved between her legs, she was wet, her body responding to the mechanics of stimulation out of sheer habit.
“I’ve missed this,” he groaned as he slid into her.
It was a snug, familiar fit. It didn’t stretch her. It didn’t fill the deep, craving heart of her. It was just… there. He began to move, a steady, rhythmic rocking. In, out. It was pleasurable enough.
Her mind drifted. She thought of Jade in the shower, the brutal, possessive way she’d been taken from behind, the slap of skin, the filthy, empowering words growled in her ear. The feeling of being so utterly full she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel.
David’s pace quickened. His breathing became ragged in her ear. “God, Clara, you feel so good.”
She wrapped her legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, trying to find that elusive spark. She met his thrusts, a frantic, desperate counter-rhythm. Maybe if she just tried harder. Maybe if she pretended.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, trying to summon the raw energy of the night before. “Come on, David, fuck me harder.”
He tried. He grunted with effort, driving into her with more force. But it was just movement. Noise. The bedsprings squeaked in a mundane protest. She felt the familiar, distant build-up of an orgasm, a faint flicker at the edges of the sensation. It would be a small one, a polite little climax that barely ruffled the surface of her being.
David cried out, his body stiffening as he came inside her with a series of shallow, final thrusts. He collapsed onto her, sweaty and spent. “See?” he panted into her hair. “See? We’re good together.”
He rolled off, a satisfied smile on his face. Clara lay still, staring at the ceiling. The pleasant numbness was already receding, replaced by a cold, clear certainty. The emptiness inside her was more profound than ever.
She could feel the slow, wet trickle of his release between her legs. It felt like a placeholder. A bland substitute for the hot, claiming flood she’d taken from Jade. She knew, with a clarity that was almost violent, that ‘good’ wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Not even close.
The silence in the room was thick, broken only by their slowing breath. David’s weight beside her was a familiar anchor, one she now realized was holding her in shallow water. She stared at the cracks in the ceiling plaster, tracing their paths like a map to somewhere else, anywhere else.
“I should get that hoodie,” he said eventually, his voice with a hint of awkwardness.
“David.” Her own voice was rough, scraped clean from the inside. She sat up, pulling the sheet around her, creating a fabric barrier. The room felt suddenly cold. “That was… nice. And I do miss you.”
He propped himself up on an elbow, a hopeful, confused smile touching his lips. “I know. It’s okay. We can figure this out.”
“No.” The word was final, a stone dropped into a still pond. “We can’t. This was probably a mistake.”
The smile vanished. He sat up fully, the sheet pooling around his waist. “What? Why? Clara, what just happened here felt right. It felt like us.”
“It felt like what we were,” she corrected, her gaze steady even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “Comfortable. And safe. But it’s not enough for me anymore. I’m so sorry, but I need to move on.”
He looked as if she’d struck him. The confusion in his eyes curdled into a raw, bewildered hurt. “Move on to what? To who? Is there someone else?”
The ghost of Jade’s hands on her hips, the memory of being so utterly filled, flashed through her mind. It wasn’t just the sex. It was the terrifying, thrilling possibility of being truly known. “It’s not about another person. It’s about me. I was drowning in ‘nice’, David. I was starving on a diet of ‘good enough’.”
He swung his legs out of bed, turning his back to her as he dressed with sharp, angry movements. The quiet rustle of his jeans, the click of his belt buckle, were accusations in the quiet room. “So that’s it? After two years, I’m just… not enough?”
“You are enough,” she said, the words feeling hollow even to her. “You’re a good man. But we’re not enough for each other. Not like this.”
He found his grey hoodie draped over her chair and yanked it on. He stood by the door for a moment, his hand on the knob, his shoulders tense. He didn’t look back. “Take care of yourself, Clara.”
The door clicked shut behind him, a sound more final than any slam. The emptiness of the apartment rushed in to fill the space he’d left behind. It was no longer a comfortable silence but a vast, echoing chamber.
Clara drew her knees to her chest, resting her forehead on them. The scent of him, of their coupling, still clung to the sheets. It was the smell of an ending. She felt a profound sorrow, not for the loss of him, but for the time she’d spent pretending the ache inside her didn’t exist.