Her heart was dry, protected by the quiet peace of home. Before she knew it, her husband's warmth turned into a duty, and the joy of being a woman became a distant memory. The urge to ``want to be wanted so much that it breaks me'' opened the door to immorality. Rather than the creeping guilt, the vivid satisfaction of the moment their skin met numbed her. The contours of everyday life became blurred, and I felt that the ``real me'' was breathing only in the forbidden pleasures. Once the hellfire is lit, it doesn't seem like it can be extinguished.
