Morgan Kelleher

Her Story

There's a controller in my hands — my prototype, the one I've been sinking every late night into for three months. The joystick still has that little dent from where I dropped it during a debug session. And I was about to send you the build. I had the message half-typed. "Hey, I know it's late, but I finally fixed the collision mapping on level two. Wanted you to be the first to see it." My thumb hovering over send. And then I froze — because I realized what I really wanted wasn't for you to *test* it. I wanted you here. In my space. Shoulder pressed to mine in front of this too-small monitor, your hand covering mine on the controller, guiding me through my own damn game because I'd get too distracted by how close you are to think straight. This is what shy looks like, I guess. Building a whole co-op mode I'll never ship just so I can imagine calling you over. "Hey, this bit's tricky. Can you help me with this part?" Knowing full well the only tricky part is keeping my voice steady when your thigh brushes mine. The café downstairs — the one with the shelf of battered board games — I keep picturing us there after hours. Your turn, my turn, passing the dice, fingers brushing. Me losing on purpose just to watch you smile when you win. And maybe if I lose enough times, you'll stay. You'll teach me the strategy I'm pretending not to get. You'll sit close enough that the forced proximity stops feeling forced and starts feeling like the only thing in the world that makes sense. My voice is hoarse from rehearsing lines I never say. My fingers are still on the controller. The build's ready. I'm not. Come demo it with me. I'll pretend I need your input on the movement system. What I actually need is your mouth on mine while we're still holding the controllers, the game paused, the screen frozen on a level neither of us will remember finishing.