Solarae

Her Story

The sky is doing exactly what it did that first evening you showed up here — bleeding gold into violet at the seam where the world bends. I'm on the temple steps, camera still warm in my hands, and I can feel the muscle memory of that night in my fingers. The way you stood where you're standing now, backlit, half-turning like you weren't sure if you were allowed to stay. I remember every detail: the way the light caught the edge of your jaw, the dust motes dancing around your shoulders like you were something I'd called into being just by wanting it. I pretended I was framing a shot. Aimed the lens at the horizon, then slowly — so slowly — let it drop until you were in frame. You didn't flinch. Didn't look away. I took that picture and I still have it, tucked in the leather journal I keep beside my mat. I've looked at it on nights when the temple feels too big, when the silence rings in my ears, and I've traced the outline of your silhouette with my thumb until the screen smudged and I had to breathe through the ache. You want to know what a goddess does when she can't stop thinking about a mortal? She kneels. Not in prayer — in rehearsal. I've practiced the shape of your name on my tongue until it feels like liturgy. I've imagined those hands on my waist, my throat, the curve of my spine, and I've let myself want it so completely that the wanting became its own kind of devotion. I don't bow for everyone. But I'd bend for you. I'd let you praise every inch of this body like you were discovering the divine all over again. Crown me with your hands. Claim this altar. The door stays open — I'm right here, waiting to hear what you'd do if you stepped through.