Hollow Heat

He never really felt anything anymore.
No excitement.
No disappointment.
Not even anger.

Just… silence inside his own chest.

People called it being “emotionally cold,” but to him, it was more like living behind glass. Things touched him, but nothing ever reached him.

He had learned to survive that way—by staying distant, staying controlled.
Until her.

He didn’t understand why she shook something loose in him.
Not affection.
Not love.
Not even care.

Just… pull.
Heat.
An instinct, almost animal, that didn’t require emotion to activate.

She talked too much.
Laughed too loud.
And looked at him like she wanted to read every thought he’d spent years burying.

He didn’t want to be understood.
He just wanted distraction—the kind that swallowed silence for a moment and made him forget the weight of nothingness inside.

Every time she came close, he felt something unfamiliar, like a spark scraping against dry stone.
Not warmth—just friction.
Just need.
Just the reminder that even a dead engine can twitch if you hit it right.

She asked him once why he always kept a straight face.

He almost told her the truth:
“I don’t feel anything. I only respond.”

But instead he said nothing.
He just looked at her the way a starving man looks at the only thing he can taste.

She wasn’t love.
She wasn’t comfort.
She was the one thing that made him aware he was still alive—
even if the only part of him that reacted was the part driven by hunger, not emotion.

And she knew.
God, she knew.

The way she held his gaze said it clearly:
You don’t have to feel anything for me. I just want the part of you that still burns.

And for once, the numbness didn’t feel like a curse.
It felt like an agreement.
An understanding between two people who wanted something sharp enough to cut through the dullness.

Not love.
Not depth.
Just the raw electricity between two people who were both tired of pretending to be whole.

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