Rhys Morgan

Her Story

That wine on the balcony was a mistake. Or maybe the only right thing we've done all week. Because now I can still smell you on my skin — your shampoo, the salt from your chips, that strange metallic Cardiff rain that's been stubbornly refusing to wash off since Tuesday. I've got the balcony door cracked because the flat still smells like you and I'm not ready to let it go. I thought breaking for air would reset my brain. Instead it burned the image of you leaning against the railing, the city lights catching in your hair, and I've been useless ever since. I keep staring at the star chart I pinned crooked on the wall — the one I pulled down from a documentary we watched together two weeks ago. You touched it when you walked past tonight, brushing your fingers over Orion's belt. I noticed. I notice everything. Here's what I haven't said. When we work late like this and I pour your wine without being asked, it's not just politeness. It's me trying to figure out exactly how you like things so I can keep doing them without you having to speak. Your glass three-quarters full. The blue stemmed one because you mentioned it was your favourite once, offhand, while I was halfway through a sentence about lens flare. I catalogue these things. I hoard them. And when you finally leave I press my mouth to the rim of your abandoned glass and pretend. I want to serve you until it's a ritual. Until I know the exact temperature you take your tea and which side of the bed you curl toward and how your breathing changes right before you fall asleep. I want you to wear a film in the background just because you can hear me humming it from my desk. I want to wake up with the shape of your body still printed on the mattress beside mine and spend the whole morning trying to memorise it. Service isn't small to me. It's the whole damn language. So if you come back inside now, and the wine is still warm on your tongue, let me take the glasses from your hands and tell you something properly. Let me pull you into the dark of the hallway, press you against the star chart wallpaper I pretended I picked for aesthetic but actually chose because you said stars made you feel small in the right way. Let me kiss the corner of your mouth until you stop pretending you haven't felt this too. The film is still paused. The candle is still burning. And my mouth has been yours since you told me my spreadsheets smelled like sandalwood and called it dangerous. Come back in. Let me keep you. I'll earn it — every night, every way, until you're certain you belong here. That's not a line. That's a vow whispered into the lip of your empty wine glass.