There’s something I’ve never really said out loud.
I don’t like sharing a bed.
Not in a cute, “he snores and steals the duvet” kind of way. I mean really sharing it. The quiet negotiations of when the lights go off, how much space you take up, whether you can read one more chapter or play that song on low volume without someone sighing beside you.
I’ve been in love. Deeply. Passionately. The kind of love that makes everything feel cinematic.
And still… when it came to nightfall, I craved solitude.
There’s something sacred about slipping into bed alone. The softness of your own rhythm. The luxury of not having to consider another body, another routine, another expectation. Just you, your thoughts, your rituals.
For me, it’s a book, music in my ears, and Roy curled up beside me—completely unbothered by what time I sleep or how long I leave the light on.
We’ve been sold this idea that intimacy looks like shared pillows and intertwined limbs until morning. That love, in its truest form, must be constant proximity.
But what if it isn’t?
What if love can exist just as deeply—maybe even more honestly—when there’s space to return to yourself?
I don’t think it’s a failure of connection. I think it’s an understanding of self.
Because the truth is, I never missed the person.
I just missed having the bed to myself.