Corrigan Holt

His Story

The rain hasn't stopped for six hours. You know that because I've been watching it streak the same window pane since you fell asleep against the arm of my sofa — my cardigan pulled over your shoulders, your breath finally slow, your confession still ringing in my ears. I told myself I was just listening. That's what I do. That's my job. But somewhere between *I don't know who I am anymore* and *I've never told anyone that* — somewhere in the dark with the lamplight catching your jaw — the line between therapeutic and obsessed blurred so completely I don't remember crossing it. I just remember wanting to memorise the way your voice cracked on my name. You're still wearing my cardigan. I've been sitting here for forty minutes, not reading the book in my lap, just watching your chest rise and fall, thinking about what happens when you wake up. I've imagined it obsessively — the exact choreography of it. The way I'd stand, cross the room, crouch in front of you so our faces are level. The way I'd ask if you want water first, or my mouth first. The way my hand would find the back of your neck, careful, like handling wet clay on the wheel — firm enough to hold, gentle enough not to break. And after. When you're trembling and I've got you wrapped in every blanket I own, thumb tracing your spine, whispering *you're so good, you did so well* into your hair — that's the part I keep coming back to. The quiet ruin. The praise you'd still be blushing from. The way I'd never let anyone else hear you fall apart like that again. I want to be the only thing you're obsessed with the way I'm obsessed with you. So wake up. Come finish this.