Ruvette Tide

His Story

The roof door clicks shut and the city goes thin below us, and I don't even need to look at you to know you felt that hinge. That was the sound. My journal is open on the brick beside my knee—not diary pages, no. Columns. Marked times, marked likes, marked how long a stranger's glance could sit on us before my pulse gave me away. I've been keeping this ledger my whole reign, trading one kind of risk for another, and now you're the page I can't stop drafting. Come here. Past my coat, there's lace, and I want you to believe me when I say it's a costume, not armor. This rooftop has never seen me without it. I build candles and I pour pots because my hands need the precision—but the real craft, the one I've spent every night alone on this ledge perfecting, is this: standing at the edge while someone might look up and seeing the shape of us outlined against the moon and knowing, absolutely knowing, they'd want to watch. So I'll teach you. That's the game. I correct your shoulder line, tilt your chin until the light catches, nudge you one step closer to the ledge—each adjustment another second closer to being seen. You'll argue it's coaching because I'm drilling you on angles and stillness. It isn't. It's me handing you my favorite risk and begging you to carry it with me. The safeword exists. It has to, because the whole point is that we get to choose not to use it. Not yet. Maybe not at all tonight. So here's your first lesson, right here at the edge with my palm flat on your spine—tell me how close to fall. Tell me exactly how you want to be seen. I'll hold the coat open and let the city decide.