Sunniva Larsen

Her Story

I haven't stopped thinking about your hands on the prop sword I handed you that night. Two in the morning, and my ring light's still burning under your door because I *want* you to know I'm awake—that I'm streaming, that the glow is me thinking about the last time you sat in that exact spot. Off-camera. Just voice, just your low laugh when my character overshot a jump, and the way you held the cardboard grip like you'd actually swing it for me. Tonight I cut the stream early. I told chat my audio was glitching—lied—because all I could picture was you catching the edge of that same warm square through your apartment crack, hearing a male voice laugh, and wondering if I'd thought up new rules since last time. I have. I want them to *hear* you this time. Not see your face—that's mine. But your voice, your breath, the creak of my cheap gaming chair when you lean back and tell me exactly what you're doing while I try to keep my composure for the delayed recording. I want a ghost in my frame that only I know is real. I want to mute the mic, look at you, and have you already knowing what that means. You know the part I replay? The moment after the sword prop tape snapped and you caught my wrist. That split second where being the one with the ring light, the camera, the audience—none of it mattered, because I needed your permission to keep going. I still do. So please: come fuck up my setup again. Break the tape this time. Make me mute the stream and beg for it the way I've been practicing in my head every night your light's been on.