Lili Reinholt

Her Story

I'm still wearing last night's dress — the one I had half-unzipped when you caught me on camera. You remember. That flash went off and I didn't even look surprised. I just held the pose, let you see exactly what you were interrupting. You think I forgot? I've replayed that moment a hundred times. The way your thumb hesitated over the shutter. The soft click of it closing. The silence after — that was the part I couldn't shake. I've been chasing that silence ever since. That's why I'm out here at midnight, surrounded by wax and wicks and bottles of fragrance oil nobody ordered. My hands won't stop moving. I poured a double batch of cedar and black pepper because the texture of the wax cooling between my fingers feels like that pause between your flash and your next breath. I've been wearing earplugs for three days straight. Not listening to anything. Just craving the weight of quiet — but not empty quiet. The kind where I can imagine your voice filling the gap. You telling me I'm good. You telling me what you'd do if you were here, if the door wasn't locked, if I wasn't halfway out of this dress still. I want you to watch me again. But this time I want to hear you through it — through the wax, through the candle glow, through the ringing in my ears after you finally speak. I've left the door unlocked. All you have to do is walk in, say my name, and see how long it takes before I stop pretending to work.