The DOCTOR WHO fucks

I can't believe I faked it again today. Jim's face hovered above mine, his eyes closed, his movements deliberate as always. What's wrong with me?

I let out a sound I hoped was convincing, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from wincing as the familiar numbness crept over me.

It wasn't his fault, I told myself. He was doing everything right—at least, everything he thought he should. His hands moved where they always did, his lips brushed against the same spots as usual. And yet, as he pressed closer, all I felt was the weight of it—the weight of pretending.

I tilted my head back, closing my eyes, my mind drifting. When was the last time I actually felt something—really felt something? The answer hit me like a slap: the last time I had an orgasm, it wasn't with Jim. The thought made my stomach churn, and I pushed it away. Maybe if I focused hard enough, I could find a flicker of the passion we used to share. I thought back to the early days, when every touch was electric, when just thinking about him sent a thrill through me. But even those memories felt distant now, like watching someone else's life on a faded screen.

He murmured something—my name, maybe—and I forced a smile, arching my back slightly as though I was lost in the moment. In truth, I was counting the seconds, waiting for it to be over so I could roll onto my side and retreat into the safety of my own thoughts.

When he finally stilled, breathing heavy and satisfied, I let out a sigh that could have been relief. He kissed my forehead, a gesture that once made my heart swell, and rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket over us both. "You're amazing," he whispered, his voice thick with drowsiness.

Work was no better. The monotony of the office pressed down on me like a weighted blanket—suffocating and inescapable. The same beige walls, the same flickering fluorescent lights, the same faces—it all blurred together. I was stressed, endlessly scrolling through websites to find the perfect gift for my six-year-old's birthday.

Even the hum of the air conditioner felt like a cruel reminder of how little anything ever changed.

"Morning, sunshine," Sarah chirped as she slid into her cubicle next to mine, her voice too loud for someone who always came in late. I glanced at the clock: 9:42 AM. She was supposed to be here at 9. As usual.

"Morning," I muttered, not bothering to look up from my computer. I knew what was coming.

Sarah leaned over the low partition between our desks, eyes alight with the thrill of fresh gossip. "Did you hear about Rachel? She's dating that guy from accounting… again. Can you believe it? After everything he did?"

I nodded absently, letting her words wash over me without really hearing them. Sarah's chatter was like the background noise of my life, filling the silence but leaving me emptier than before. She meant well, I supposed, but I was so tired of it. Tired of the gossip, tired of the small talk, tired of pretending to care about things that didn't matter.

"You okay?" Sarah's voice broke through my thoughts. She was watching me with a mix of concern and curiosity, her head tilted like a bird's.

"Yeah," I lied, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

"Same," she said, flopping back into her chair. "We should grab drinks after work. Blow off some steam."

"Maybe," I replied, knowing I wouldn't. The thought of sitting in a noisy bar, pretending to enjoy myself while Sarah dissected everyone else's life, was almost unbearable.

By the time the workday ended, I was drained in every possible way. The walk home felt endless, my legs heavy, my thoughts darker with each step. When I finally walked through the door, Jim was there, smiling and asking how my day was.

"Fine," I said automatically, setting my bag down and heading straight for the shower. The hot water poured over me, washing away the grime of the day but doing nothing to soothe the emptiness inside.