Every time he brags to his rugby mates about our 'explosive' sex life, I want the ground to swallow me whole. I’ve been faking my orgasms for two years just to protect his feelings, and the guilt was eating me alive. But yesterday, while clearing out our old Tinder screenshots, I found a draft in his notes: he’s been faking his too because he felt so pressured to perform. We’ve literally been staging an Oscar-winning drama for an audience of zero, and I feel completely broken.

Congratulations to both of you: you’ve spent two years starring in a private theatre production where each actor thought the other was a harsh theatre critic. Toss the guilt right out the window. What feels humiliating right now is actually your golden ticket. Neither of you is broken; you’ve just been trapped in the exact same exhausting performance loop. He brags to his sports mates out of insecurity, and you moaned on cue for the very same reason. You were both trying so hard to protect each other that you forgot to actually enjoy each other. The brilliant part? The pressure is instantly gone. You don't need a heavy, dramatic confession. Make some tea, sit down, and gently bring up what you found: "Turns out we’re both terrible liars and phenomenal actors. What do you say we retire from Broadway and figure out what we actually like?" Sex without the pressure to perform is infinitely hotter anyway. Welcome to day one of your real sex life.