I Hear Her With Him on the Other Side of the Wall

—Yes, like that, harder, don’t stop!

—Is that how you like it, huh? Like this?

The moans seep through the wall as if there were no barrier between us at all. I hear her, her voice broken by pleasure, and I hear him, that low laugh of someone who knows he’s won. I stay still for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to the friction of bodies against the headboard on the other side.

Slowly, carefully, so as not to make a sound, I lower the zipper of my pants, as if I still cared whether she knew I was here. I take off my pants, then my underwear. The lamp on my nightstand casts the shadow of my cock onto the wall, enlarged and ridiculous, so I switch it off. Better in the dark. Better not seeing myself.

I settle against the pillow, close my eyes, and let my right hand rest on my sex. In rhythm with their moans, I push up, then down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Each motion a little firmer than the last. And with each one, I remember.

***

—Baby, I love this photo you took of me. Too bad I can’t show it off.

Mariana was holding the phone, looking at the screen with that half-smile that melted me. She was the prettiest girl I had ever met, and even now, after everything, I’m still in love with her like a fool. That afternoon I’d bought her a black lingerie set and she’d put it on just for me. I took a photo of her stretched out on the bed, with the light coming in through the window, and she loved it as much as I did.

—Post it on your stories —I told her—. Let everyone see you. Let them know you’re mine and die of envy.

I hugged her from behind, kissed her neck, ran my hands over her waist. I wanted to mark her as mine, make it clear to the whole world. I didn’t think about what that might set in motion. She posted the photo on her stories, and I shared it on my socials, proud, showing off what I had.

The messages arrived within minutes.

“Your girlfriend is fucking hot. One day she’s going to be mine.”

“I’m going to wreck her and she’s going to end up asking me for more.”

“I wonder how long it’ll take me to make her moan for me.”

I didn’t know what disturbed me more: that a stranger was talking about Mariana like that, or the certainty that he wasn’t a stranger at all. It was someone I had added, someone who had made a fake account just to write me that. I knew it from the way he mentioned details, things only people following us closely would see.

The messages kept coming for weeks. Sometimes two a day, sometimes none. And then one day, just like that, they stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought the guy had gotten bored, that he’d found something else to amuse himself with. I didn’t understand, until much later, that a predator never gets bored. He just gets closer.

***

I remember exactly the day those messages stopped coming.

That night we went out with a group of friends. It was the first time I’d introduced Mariana properly, all together, and I was happy, almost proud. I had her by the arm, introducing her to one person after another, and she smiled with that natural ease that could make anyone fall for her. Everything was fine until he showed up.

He wasn’t my friend. I knew him only by sight because some people in the group got along with him, and someone had thought to invite him. His name was Damián, or at least that’s what he called himself. He was the kind of person who turned my stomach: arrogant, with no boundaries, depraved to the bone. He only talked about sex, as if nothing else existed in the world.

—I’m fucking someone tonight —he blurted out the moment I greeted him, without my asking anything.

I nodded out of politeness. I wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.

—I ran out of condoms with a girl the other day —he went on, with that hyena grin—. So whoever I take home tonight is going bare, no question.

I nodded again. I couldn’t have cared less what that pig did with his night. Just then Mariana came over, curious, and I had no choice but to introduce them. I did it grudgingly, wishing it would be over quickly. I saw the way he looked her up and down, openly, and I felt a shiver I couldn’t interpret. I wish he hadn’t come, I thought. I wish he’d leave already.

When he finally walked away, I let out a breath. My friends dragged me to the bar, insisting I drink with them. I’m not one to get drunk; I almost never overdo it. But that night, between the sugary taste of the drink and the conversation that kept me distracted, the alcohol hit me fast. Too fast. Faster than it ever had before.

***

The floor started moving under my feet. The lights turned into blotches and the voices into a distant hum. I couldn’t focus. It took me a while to realize something was wrong, that this wasn’t a normal drunk. By the time I tried to clear my head, it was already too late.

I looked for Mariana. I found her dancing with someone in the middle of the club. I didn’t recognize him at first; I thought I was seeing wrong, that my eyes were playing tricks on me. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes. When I lifted my gaze again, I just managed to see her slip away toward the bathrooms.

I tried to follow her. I took two steps and tripped over my own legs. My friends held me up, helped me straighten, and instead of letting me go, they pushed me back to the bar, laughing, putting another glass in my hand. I struggled with them without understanding why they were insisting so much, why they wouldn’t let me leave. It took me forever to wriggle free.

When I managed it, I saw him. Damián, with Mariana by the arm, cornered against the back wall. You could tell from miles away he was harassing her, that she was trying to pull away and he wouldn’t let go. I came at him raging, shouted for him to let her go, to get out of the way.

The next thing I felt was a sharp blow to the back of my neck and then the cold of the floor against my cheek.

From down there, everything was blurry. Mariana knelt beside me, took me by the arm, asked if I was okay, her voice shaking. I tried to speak and the words wouldn’t come. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Damián heading for the exit, unhurried, looking back.

—Wait here a moment —Mariana told me.

And she got up. And she ran after him.

They left me sprawled there among my friends, who crowded around me again, this time to keep me awake. They didn’t manage it. Darkness closed over me like a lid.

***

I know what happened that night. I know because I repeat it to myself over and over as I move my hand up and down over my sex, faster and faster, harder and harder. I whimper softly in the darkness of my room, trying to fill my head with images of her. Her warm skin beneath my fingers. Her mouth taking me slowly. The way she arched when I was inside her. I try to remember her as mine.

But when I’m about to come, when the pleasure turns almost unbearable, the only thing that floods me is the images from the other side of the wall.

How that man who sent me filthy messages convinced my own friends to throw that party just to meet her. How he made sure I drank too much, that I couldn’t stand on my feet. How he danced with her, his hands brushing her thighs while I sank into my own stupor. How, in that bathroom, she ended up on her knees in front of him. How she followed him afterward to his apartment, of her own free will, without anyone forcing her. How he stripped her, holding her by the engagement ring I had put on her finger.

That’s the last thing I see before I cum.

***

Now we live wall to wall. Life has a cruel sense of humor: when she left me, the only room I could find to rent cheaply was the one next to hers, in the same building. Damián comes almost every night. And I listen.

I hear her moan like she never moaned with me. I hear her ask him for things she never asked me for. I hear her say his name with a surrender that splits me in two, and even so I can’t stop touching myself. It’s a humiliation I choose for myself, night after night, because it’s the only thing I have left of her: her voice seeping through the plaster, setting the rhythm of my hand.

I come with a muffled groan while I listen to the love of my life being fucked by the man who took her from me. Enjoying everything I can no longer give her. And while the sheet stains with my third orgasm of the night, I remember that photo, the black lingerie one, the one I posted proudly on my socials. The same one she wore again, weeks later, in another photo. Only that time it wasn’t for me. That time he was in the background, smiling at the camera.

***

On the other side of the wall, the moans slowly fade. I hear the bed creak one last time, then footsteps, then the low murmur of two voices that no longer belong to me.

I stay motionless in the dark, my breathing ragged and my skin cold. My loneliness and my defeat are sealed there, in silence, as I bury my face in the pillow.

And then the pillow gets soaked too. Not with pleasure, this time. With tears.