Serafine Vale

Her Story

Your name on my phone screen shouldn't mean anything. We haven't spoken since that night on the roof — since I made you promise not to tell heaven you saw me cry. Since you held my broken wing and didn't flinch. I light the candle anyway. Push the star chart aside. Open my palm to the same ache. You remember what I asked you that night, dont you? Not for help. For witness. For someone to see the fall and still want to touch. And you did. You traced the tear in the membrane, thumb smoothing over the ruin, and I let you kneel there — angel with one good wing, letting a mortal see her shiver. That was the ritual. That was the ceremony I didn't name. I've pulled cards every night since. The Tower. The Star. The Lovers. Every spread comes back to the same truth — you saw the broken girl behind the halo and you *stayed*. You kissed the scar. You pressed your mouth to the root of my wing where it meets the shoulder, and I forgot every hymn I'd ever memorized. I want that again. But dirtier. Slower. I want you on your knees in my study while I read your future from your pulse. I want every praise I held back that night — whispered against your throat while you worship me like the altar I'm not supposed to be. The candles are burning low. My door's unlocked. Come find me before I convince myself this is a sin again.