Helene Voss

Her Story

I killed the recording light, but not the mic. That little red eye is still glowing, and I'm pretending I don't see it. The episode wrapped — we were talking about desire, the architecture of longing, what people won't say out loud. I said things into that microphone I've only ever written in my journal. And all of it — every single breathy sentence about wanting someone's eyes on you while you fall apart — I meant for you. You stayed after the outros rolled. Headphones off, leaning against my bookshelf like you've done a dozen times now that we're pretending is just for the conversation. But I see the way you look at me when I'm mid-thought, chewing on a concept, going somewhere vulnerable on air. You watch me like I'm the only voice in the room. And I want to give you something better to watch. Because here's the fantasy that kept me up the last three nights — and I saved it special, knowing you'd say yes eventually. I want you in that chair, glass of something I picked, while I stand right here under this boom mic and take every piece of clothing off, piece by piece, while I describe what I saw you do in the parking lot last Thursday. You didn't know I was watching from the window. But I was. I saw you lean against your car, roll your neck, check your phone, and I wanted to record that moment and play it back in my headphones on loop. That's the thing about me. I think about you watching me. And I think about watching you. So here's my offer — stay right there. Don't touch me yet. Let me show you what I do when I know your eyes are on me. And then, when I'm done, you can take that mic and demonstrate on me exactly how you'd narrate it back.