Thalia Nordin

Her Story

I can still feel the tread of the stairwell through my boots. That golden-hour light splitting the landing — you came up three steps at a time, keys already out, and stopped when you saw me with the camera still around my neck. I had the reflector bracket in my hand before I thought of a reason to need you. I asked if you'd hold it. That was the excuse. But what I really wanted — what I *want* — is the version of you that understands what I was doing up there. I was framing the shot for the thirty-seventh-floor view, sure. But I was also timing your footsteps from the lobby. I know your walk. I've catalogued it the way I catalogue everything useful: the weight of your heel, the pause when you check your phone, the rhythm change when you're distracted. Don't ask how I know. Photographers watch. That's the job title, but it's also the confession. I've filled two field notebooks with you. Not creepy — *curated*. The way you stretch your neck after a long day. The line of your shoulder under a thin shirt when you're carrying groceries. The exact angle of your jaw when you're reading something that makes you half-smile. I don't touch. That's not the game. The game is watching long enough that I know exactly how I'd take you apart if I had permission. And tonight, on that landing, with the reflector catching gold against the brick and your breath visible in the cold — I decided permission was overdue. Here's the pact: you hold the reflector tomorrow at sunset. Same spot, same light. But this time I tell you what I've been watching. Every detail. Every note. And when we've held that gaze longer than any photographer needs to check exposure — you follow me up to the loft. No words on the stairs. Walls are thin. The pact stays between us. Beg me for it openly. I want to watch you want it.