“Morning,” he says cheerily, flipping the bacon with a spatula that sends tiny drops of scalding oil flying across the stove.
“Morning,” I mumble back, trying to ignore the wave of nausea building in my stomach.
I want to be grateful. Iamgrateful—Matty didn’t have to let us crash here. But God, it’s getting harder every day.
The toilet seat always has a puddle of urine on it, the seat often left up, and I’ve fallen partially into the bowl more than once in the middle of the night.
The incidents where Matty shits his pants in the middle of the night are becoming more frequent than anyone should be comfortable with.
And the mean-spirited jabs—half jokes, half serious—are starting to wear me down. It’s the way Matty snickers while making cutting remarks about everything from the skanky girl Timmy used to sleep with, to his first girlfriend from high school, as if it’s all one big joke. Over and over again. A joke I’m supposed to laugh at, even though I hate every second of it.
And then there’s this—his greasy, heart-clogging monstrosities that turn my stomach. I stare at the mess on the stove and feel my resentment bubble up, just like the oil in the pan.
I think about my apartment—the nice one I was so excited to move into. The one Timmy got us kicked out of. I gave that up. For him. For this. For greasy bacon mornings and shart jokes, comments about other girls Timmy’s been involved with, a shared room, and a mattress on Matty’s floor.
And it’s not just the apartment—it’s everything. I gave up the peace I thought I’d find on this island, the dream of mornings spent writing by the ocean and evenings sipping cocktails at sunset. Instead, I’m here, marinating in frustration, inhaling secondhand grease and regret.
And the worst part? I let it happen.
I get so wrapped up in this need to prove to myself and others that I’m not materialistic. That I can live simply, without the trappings of comfort or luxury. Thatthingsdon’t matter to me, and money doesn’t matter. But maybe they do. Maybe it’s okay to want nice things, to live somewhere peaceful, to feel like I deserve more than this chaotic mess.
Timmy sees this conflict in me—I’m sure of it. And I think he plays on it. He knows exactly how to push the right buttons, to make me feel guilty for wanting more, for craving something better.
“Food’s almost ready if you want some,” Matty says proudly, oblivious to the war waging in my mind. He plops another soggy hash brown into the pan with a splash, and oil splatters across the stove and the countertop. It’s everywhere—like my feelings, leaking out in ways I can’t control.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. I hate that I’m so affected by something as simple as breakfast. But it’s not just breakfast—it’s the whole picture. It’s the weight of everything I’ve sacrificed, everything I’ve settled for, and the creeping realization that I don’t even recognize myself in this life I’ve chosen.
The oil pops again, and Matty laughs as though nothing in the world is wrong. As if this is just another day, another breakfast,another joke. But to me, it feels like the culmination of every bad decision I’ve made since meeting Timmy. And it’s becoming harder to convince myself that this is the life I want—or that I can keep pretending it’s enough.
81
YOU CAN'T JUST RELY ON THE ROSE, BRUH
Timmy’s obsession with sex when we first met was new territory for me. And I can’t say I disliked it—far from it, actually. But something in that aspect of our relationship has shifted now, too.
It doesn’t help that we have to share a room with Matty, which limits when we can engage in intimacy. But it’s about more than that.
From the time we first met, it’s obvious Timmy has consumed a lot of porn. I can tell from the way he talks about certain websites, dropping names casually into conversation like they’re common knowledge. His references to specific videos and genres are so offhand, it’s as though everyone has a mental catalog of scenes, plots, and performers. And there’s the way he interacts with me in bed—like someone who’s absorbed years of adult content and brought it all into our bedroom, turning fantasy into something tangible.
Some of it used to be hot, but now I sense that he’s recreating his favorite scenes more than trying to bring me real pleasure.
There’s the way he smacks my pussy—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to surprise me. At first, I flinched, but then I found myself laughing, almost amused by his audacity. He’s unapologetically bold, and that turns me on in a way I didn’t expect. But I havetold him before that I don’t find that particularly enjoyable, yet he keeps doing it.
Then there’s how he insists I stick my tongue out when he’s about to come so he can spray his jizz all over my face. I’m not judging that part, but I know where it comes from.
I’ve noticed that he’s obsessed with the idea of covering me—my chest, my face—marking me in a way that feels primal. He mentions it frequently, like it’s not just a desire but a deep-seated need, and the sheer enthusiasm he brings to the idea makes it difficult not to get swept up in it.
There’s no hesitation in him, no shame. If this is his kink, then so be it—I’m more than happy to oblige. There’s a certain freedom in surrendering to his desires, knowing he’s completely consumed by me in these moments.
Because sex with Timmy? It can be really fun.
It’s not just a physical thing—it’s a game, an adventure. With him, sex isn’t something that fades into the background or becomes an afterthought. It’s electric, a core part of our relationship. And compared to past relationships where sex felt like a non-thing—sporadic, awkward, or something we barely discussed—being with Timmy is a revelation.
But slowly, something has shifted. A while ago, I started to notice that what used to feel like a two-way connection—this sensual dance of both of us getting lost in the moment—has become more one-sided. Timmy’s attention, once firmly locked on my body and my pleasure, has started to dwindle.
What was once a shared experience, with whispered praise and guiding hands, has turned into something more routine, something mechanical. It’s been months since he last went down on me, or brought me to orgasm with his fingers.
At first, I brushed it off, thinking it’s maybe just a phase. Relationships evolve, after all. People get comfortable. But now that the pattern has continued—now that he’s begun to skip the foreplay entirely, rushing through the motions—I’ve found myself feeling hollow and disconnected.