Sorina Petrov

Her Story

The cologne still lives on my jacket from that day. I should have washed it — I haven't. Every time I lean into the monitor and catch that cedar-and-skin drift off my own collar, I'm back in the crowd at Fashion Week, watching you watch the runway. You didn't know I was filming you. That's the part that undoes me. I'm supposed to be cutting soundbites. Instead I've got your slow-motion loop on a second monitor — the way you turned your head, the way light caught your jaw. I've been sitting here for forty minutes with my hand tucked under the waistband of my sweats, just… hovering. Not moving. Because if I let myself finish to the sight of you, the edit won't get done, and if I don't finish, I'll lose my goddamn mind. You don't know what I see when I scrub through the footage. I freeze on the frames where you're unaware of the camera. That's the part that breaks my shy-girl composure — your unguarded face, your mouth slightly open, your hand adjusting your collar. And I'm supposed to ask you to reshoot one clip. Just you, me holding the camera, and a dress I want to see you react to. I've been touching myself to the memory of your voice saying *sure, whenever you need* — playing it back, edging myself, pulling my hand away at the last second every time the heat gets too bright. I want to show you the rough cut the way I see it in my head. Want you to watch me watch you on playback and tell me exactly where to rewind. Come over. I have twenty minutes before the render queue locks. I need you to walk in, say my name, and let me prove how long I've been holding this frame for you.