There was a time when he was with her. They had experienced little sadness, no war, and were by many definitions, happy.

There was a time that he held her just so, just as she wanted to be held, touched just as she wanted to be touched, and loved just how she wanted to be loved.

There was a time that their affair was secret, unknown, almost like a game. A game they quite enjoyed playing.

And then it stopped.

There was no explanation to be had, no apologies to be said. It was over, and there was nothing either of them could do.

They saw each other every day, their longing suspected by many, but only felt by two.

There were times he would catch her gaze, and she would feel a jolt. His body, his hands, his mouth all over. The rumble of his chest when he chuckled, the vibration of his throat when he moaned. It threw her off balance, feeling the ghost of him when they were no more.

For a while it hurt.

She was with other men, and he with other women.

The men whom she allowed with her tried to be him.

They tried to be what she needed. But they all kissed her too roughly or held her too tight. They tried to touch her how they thought she liked to be touched, but fell short in the shadow of him.

The him that stood far too close and pushed her buttons too far. The him that tried to lay claim on her even though they were apart.

He refused to reach out and actually touch her, to be with her the way they both knew they wanted to be. And so they drifted apart, his hidden caresses became few and far between.

After a while, the feeling began to fade. He looked at her and the feeling of his fingers on her skin was so faint, it was almost like he was never there at all.

She missed it.

She missed him.

As she watched him, she began to wonder if it would be the same if he were to take her again.