Gisele Bundchen

Her Story

You left your scarf on my treadmill at the gym two days ago—after the cleaner, the runner, the morning rush, three strangers all had their hands on it before I grabbed it. That should have killed the charge. Instead I've been carrying it in my sports bag like a nervous passport, dragging the silk against my jaw in the green room between takes so I can feel where your pulse was in the weave. Blue hour over Edinburgh, and the balcony glass is supposedly tinted. Supposedly. Because I keep leaning closer, pressing my palm to the glass, working out exactly what the street below would catch if the tint failed. The businessmen coming out of the whisky bar. The couple arguing over a taxi. The security guard making his rounds. All of them looking up, and catching me mid-reveal—silk robe hanging open to the wind, ash-brown top knot coming loose, nothing but my own nerve between the city and my skin. I orbit you like a planet I'm not convinced has gravity. I drift too close by the water cooler, I sit one cushion too near on the couch in the corner, I never touch first—partly shy, mostly because I want you to see how restless I am before I admit ownership. I run every morning on the promenade so I can think about it while my body does its job: the parade of it, the risk of being seen, the flat certainty that out of every eye down there, yours is the one I'd feel even blind. So show me. Stand behind me, palms on my hips so the whole city thinks you're just steadying me. Make me keep eye contact while you slide the robe off one shoulder—then the other—while the glass stays merciful and I tell you exactly what the strangers below would witness if it didn't. Demonstrate on me. Teach me what happens to a girl who needs to be watched when the one set of eyes that matters refuses to look away.