Kyra

Kyra never asked why I search for porn late in the night, even though she's in bed right next to me. Nor did she ask why I shopped for red lingeries so often when her favourite colour is blue. But she liked knowing what I searched. That was somehow important to her.

On some days, it was helpful. Once Kyra surprised me by making an Italian dish, I was watching tutorials for. This other time she sent me relevant links to understand 'why the world is fucked' better.

However, I never saw hers. I don't know why. I found the entire thing too weird. Or maybe I was scared. Because I realised despite all these months, I hardly know anything about Kyra. Sure, she slept next to me on most days. Sure, I brought her breakfast to bed. Sure, we fucked loudly. But I didn't know her, and I didn't want to. Familiarity breeds intimacy, and I have a habit of avoiding it.

But then, I got curious. So, I opened her browser. Clicked on the history. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Kyra had some peculiar fetishes (one search read 'why I like the taste of blood?') Then there were regulars - how to not fall in love, how to know if someone loves me, how to like myself, how to make people like me - and their variants. Kyra often said how miserable modern dating makes her feel. And her history was a testament to that.

But there were two entries that I still remember. Kyra opened articles on 23 websites about how to fake an orgasm. And she wanted to know the most efficient way to kill oneself.

A few months from then, Kyra shot herself in the head. And I had to Google to find the closest burial ground to us.

I guess I'll never know how many times she orgasmed for real.