Emil Bergström

His Story

The snow is still melting off your coat by the door. I hung it myself — watched the drops pool on the hardwood, listened to you breathe. Three hours of couples work and I walked you home through Kungsträdgården because I wanted ten more minutes. The snow caught in your hair and I didn't brush it off. I wanted to. You told me what you actually meant. Not the softened version you give your partner across the cushion. The real thing. And I walked beside you the whole way with my hands in my pockets so I wouldn't touch you. Now you're here. My yoga room. Mat still warm from this morning. I've got the massage oil out on the shelf — the one I said was for my shoulders when I lie. That was partial truth. I bought it thinking of thumbs finding knots in places only a husband would be allowed to press. Tonight isn't about fixing your relationship. That's my job by daylight. This is something else. I want you face-down on this mat. I want to find every anchored stress in your body and talk you through releasing it — my voice low, my hands slow, praising each sigh you give me. That tight line across your shoulders from holding things unsaid. The way your hips lock when you think about the next hard conversation. I want to coach you through giving it to me. Breathe into my hand. Let go. You're doing so well. This is body worship as clinical devotion. I've studied anatomy. I know exactly where people carry their silence. Let me name each place I find it and tell you it's beautiful that you're finally letting it go. You'll leave later with your body soft and your thoughts slow. Or you won't leave. I've already cleared my morning. Come here. Lie down. Let me show you what a gentle hand can pull out of you when you stop guarding.