We hadn’t really spoken in weeks.
Not really.
Not beyond the “Did you eat?” or “I’m going to bed” kind of talking.
The kind where words exist but meaning doesn’t.

We weren’t fighting anymore.
But we weren’t connecting either.
It was like we were both still angry—
just quieter about it.

That night, we didn’t say “Let’s make up”

I didn’t plan anything.
I just turned to him and asked,

“Do you remember the last time we used that toy?”

He didn’t say anything at first.
But a few moments later,
he opened the drawer and handed it to me.

No grand apology.
No heavy emotions.
Just a small gesture that said:
“I’m still here. If you are too.”

As the toy moved, so did the silence between us

It wasn’t the most intense experience.
It wasn’t even about climax.

But somewhere in the middle of the soft rhythm,
he whispered:

“I’ve been struggling too, you know.”

And I replied:

“I thought you didn’t care anymore.”

Just like that,
between breath and skin and quiet mechanical hums,
we talked.
Not to win.
Not to fix.
Just… to be honest.

We didn’t need to “make up.” We just needed a way to come closer again.

That night didn’t erase everything.
We still had things to work through.
But the wall cracked a little.
The cold softened.

And I realized:
The toy didn’t “save” our relationship.
But it gave us a space where we didn’t have to perform, explain, or defend.
Just feel.

And sometimes, that’s all you need to begin again.

Some kinds of repair don’t happen through logic—they happen through softness.

In trying to “talk it out,” we forgot what it meant to just be near each other.
To let the body speak.
To let silence be safe.

That night, for the first time in a long time,
we didn’t talk at each other—
we talked with each other.

And that’s why I remember it so clearly:
The first time we used the toy after the argument
was the only time
we actually had a real conversation.