Some days, I still think about him. I have almost forgotten him. But then again, my memory isn't what it used to be. I don't know what I miss more, the feeling of his lips against mine or his insults. Masochist. Some days, I remember the way his hands felt against my flesh. And some days, I don't remember how much I loved him.
We only had sex once. We were both hammered, on the verge of blacking out. We didn't think we knew what we were doing. I recall wondering what it was that propelled it, the alcohol, or the years I'd spent pining for this very moment. And when I was spread out under him, biting my lip to hold in my screams, I knew I loved him. The next day at work, when he came in and made his jokes, feigned a marriage proposal, I smiled. I remember, that was the happiest I had ever felt. "House, you ass," I had told him through my grin. I think we had gone home together that night, but alcohol hadn't been enough to instigate a second round of love making.
"You belong to me," House had whispered after he kissed me goodnight, thinking I hadn't heard. When I woke up the next morning, I stared at his sleeping face.
"I belong to you," I had whispered.
And that was the beginning and end of our relationship. Everything reverted to friendship. There was no talk of it, no more sweet nothings whispered, no more loving glances passed at the hospital, no more intoxicated body pressed against intoxicated body. We grew old, we grew apart, we grew away.
And some days, before I go to sleep, I whisper to him, wherever he is, "I belong to you."