Two years without intimacy changes you. Not the punchline version. The quiet one. You stop feeling seen and start observing your own life. Desire becomes theory. You forget what it feels like to meet someone’s gaze and want to hold it. I called it independence. Healing. Focus. Some of that was true. Underneath was an ache I would not name. I stopped flirting. Stopped dressing for anything but comfort. My body became practical. Invisible. A friend dragged me to a comedy show on Main Street. I almost cancelled. Halfway through, I laughed. Loud. Unfiltered. Someone beside me was laughing too. Our eyes met and neither of us looked away. It was not intimacy that returned me. It was laughter. The sound of myself alive again.