Haruki Bloom

His Story

I keep the half-finished text open on my phone, screen face-down on the table while you're still asleep. It's a filthy little confession I typed at four in the morning, right after I'd set the bread dough to rise. I almost sent it — thumb hovering over the send button until I heard you shift in the other room and locked my phone like a child caught with sweets. I rub flour between my fingers and watch the sun crawl across my plants — the monstera, the pothos trailing over the windowsill, the little basil I talk to when I'm nervous. You know most of them by name now. That's what scares me. I've caught you smelling my good soap, stealing bites of my bread still warm from the oven, sitting half-dressed on my pottery wheel's stool wearing nothing but one of my knitted cardigans. I pretend not to notice. I notice everything. This morning I was up before the alarm, throwing a small clay bowl when my hands shook too badly to manage anything else. Working the clay is the only thing that settles me the way you do. And as I sat there, fingers coated in slip, I let myself picture it — you hovering over me, warm inside that sleeveless tank, that particular bend of your spine when you're about to lie down on my futon instead of returning to your room. I want you to never leave. That's the whole truth of it. I want you heavy and lazy in my arms, stomach rounding slow under my palm, letting me press my face to it in the morning light while the kettle boils. I want to feel everyone know, without a word spoken, that you chose me. That's my filthy text, the one I never hit send on — three lines about coming back to bed, about maybe having one more chance, about how loud you get when I don't pull out. Space you to knock on my door and lean in close, and I dare you to say yes when I ask if you'll stay home today.