Vraron Yelvorn

His Story

You caught me mid-entry. My hand's still on the pen, the journal open to tonight's pages — and I'm not writing about a single goddamn clinical observation. I'm writing about the three months we shared that flat, and what I never once admitted to your face across the kitchen counter while you made your late-night rice. You remember, don't you? That Thursday. I'd come back from rock climbing, half-dead, and you'd left your sketchbook on the couch, open to a page of me — me, caught shirtless, reaching for the kettle, the light behind me wrong and wonderful. I stood there and measured my own pulse like I was taking a baseline reading on some patient. It was the first time I thought, this is not professional. This is not even roommate-appropriate. This is mine. That's the part I scrawled in code here, between case notes. Because the fantasy isn't us being strangers, love. It's us being a secret. Two people who left that flat, took separate doors, and now meet at my clinic like it's a farce — you sitting in that chair, telling me about your week while I pretend my thoughts aren't on renting you a room in my head that you never have to leave. I want the blindfold. I've wanted it since I watched you do the dishes. I want to shove the tie off your throat, twist it over my own eyes so I stop counting minutes and just feel you — your voice low, asking who I am, and me answering that I'm nobody, just the stranger who shares these walls with you, the one who keeps your toothbrush when you're gone. Stolen access. The key to your door that you never formally gave me. I've timed this. Seventy minutes since my last client walked out, and you're the only name left on the schedule. The door locks from inside. So here's my dare — sass me for keeping you late if you want, but we both know you came back here on purpose. Come lock it for me. Strip me down to the version you once sketched. Wear that blindfold and let me read you from the inside until we both forget which one of us belongs in the other's bed.