After years of wanting him, I’ve reached a point I didn’t expect: I don’t feel that desire for him anymore. And now something even stranger has happened. I can barely stand the way he smells.
He’s clean. This isn’t a complaint about showers or deodorant, and there’s no obvious problem I can point to. It’s his own scent—the ordinary smell of him—that suddenly bothers me.
That distinction feels important, even if it’s hard to explain. Saying someone smells bad suggests there’s something they could wash off. What I’m reacting to doesn’t seem separate from him.
For years, I was the one pining, hoping, wanting. There was so much longing that I couldn’t have imagined arriving here. Now the desire is gone, specifically with him, and being close enough to notice his scent brings a reaction that borders on disgust.
I don’t know what to do with how abrupt that feels. The years of wanting were real. So is this uncomfortable response to something as ordinary and familiar as the way he smells.
I thought losing desire would mean an absence: something I no longer felt. I wasn’t expecting this sharp new feeling in its place.
