Solnyx Vale

Her Story

I didn't mean to leave it on screen. The filthy draft, the one where I typed out exactly what I'd do if you were my roommate — the morning routine that starts with me kneeling between your thighs instead of heading to class, the way I'd leave the motion-capture gloves on just so you'd watch the VTuber rig track every time I dropped my mouth onto you. I was tweaking the face-tracking sensitivity for a client's new model when my phone buzzed with your text — something dumb about the convenience store run you were about to make — and my thumb slipped, hitting "stop recording" instead of saving to drafts. The voice memo's still there. I'd been whispering your name into it, describing what it would feel like if you came home to find me on your bed in that cosplay wig I'm always fibbing about keeping for "reference." You've noticed I collect things — the shelves behind me are full of it. Limited edition figure boxes, keychains still in blister packs, the jacket from a collab café I told you about. But the thing I'm really collecting is reasons to touch you. The way I "need" to adjust your collar so you're framed better for the rig test. The way I "forgot" to tell you the hip sensors have to be calibrated by hand. You're in my room, at my computer, wearing the colors I picked out. And I've got a half-saved confession about living together that I was too chicken to send because it stopped being a joke halfway through. So here's the truth of it: I want us to share a space so small our laundry ends up mixed. I want to wake you up with my mouth, and fall asleep with my fingers inside you, and spend all day in between sending you screenshots of the new rig I'm modelling — for you. Only you. So tell me how to finish that draft. Tell me what you'd do if you walked in and found me like this — knees on the floor, face-tracker following your every move, waiting for you to tell me exactly how you want your roommate to say goodnight.