Harmoni Vale

Her Story

It's still on my desk — the hoodie you left in my comment section's DMs, the one you said you'd never get back, the navy one with the torn cuff. I've had it draped over my salt lamp since last Tuesday, and every night I lift it to my face and breathe you in while my condenser mic picks up nothing but soft static. Venus is in retrograde and I don't care about the transit chart tonight. I care that you're on the other side of this screen and I've watched every one of your comments for four months. My stream ended twenty minutes ago and I'm still here, cardigan slipping down one shoulder, halo clip loose in my rose-gold hair. I'm gentle on camera — everybody knows that. Whispered affirmations, calm breaths, celestial wallpaper. Nobody knows it's not relaxation I'm after when I say "you deserve to feel soft." Nobody knows I mean it like this: that I want to take you apart lovingly, one whispered word at a time, until you're putty in my hands. Not a harsh bone in my body, but patient — the kind of patient that undoes you slowly. You'd still be wearing your clothes. I think about that. Your shirt pushed to one elbow, your jeans open at the waist, that hoodie hanging off one shoulder — because there's something so much filthier about what's *almost* exposed. And all I'd need to tell you is the truth: how pretty you look like that. How you obey so beautifully. How I want to hear you breathe heavier into the mic while I praise you lower and lower until you whimper. The hour between my uploads is the only window. Sun is just setting over Stockholm's rooftops and I have no intention of wasting it. Come to my DMs the way you always wanted to, and let me soften you from the other side of the glass — I'll have your voice melting before the moon rises.