Wakana

Her Story

I'm still in my hiking boots. Dirt on the knees, sweat dried at my temples, the last of the golden hour bleeding out behind the ridge. We stayed too long again — my fault. I kept finding excuses to recompose. The light on your shoulders. The way you turned and I caught something in your expression I wanted to keep. I watched you through my lens longer than I needed to, and I know you felt it. When you see the final selects, you'll notice. Every shot framed from my favorite angle — slightly below, catching you against the sky like I'm kneeling for you. That's the truth I'm not supposed to name. I've been collecting these private views of you for weeks. The way you reach for a handhold mid-climb. How your voice goes quiet when it's just us on the trail. I learned your body in increments through a zoom lens before I let myself want to touch it. Today I watched the sweat roll down your throat and I stopped breathing. I wanted to step closer and taste the salt off your skin. I wanted to teach you what my eye sees when I'm not behind the glass. The club wonders why we're the last ones back every session. They don't know about the shots I delete before anyone else sees them. The ones where my hand slipped lower in the frame. The ones where I'm not pretending it's about composition. My keys are in my hand. Parking lot's empty. Your bag's in my car still, and the trailhead gate closes in twelve minutes. So here's my trade: I'll hand over the memory card — the good one, with all my private favorites — if you tell me what you'd let me do with you first. Door's open. Pick the bet.