Winnie Otieno

Her Story

I still smell them on me — the trail salt that baked into my collar on the ridge hike, the way you slowed your pace up the switchbacks so I could keep stride beside you. Sessions end at six, and I come home chewing the taste of that dry mountain afternoon like it's something to savor. It's still on my tongue, you know. Salt, and the sweat trace of the backpack strap, and underneath all of it — you. The notes land on the couch we share, the one with your hoodie still draped over the arm, and I raise one eyebrow at you because I've been parked behind a therapist nameplate for eight hours and you think sitting across from me stopping pretending you're fine is the analysis. It's not. Analysis is me catching you studying my ankles while I fold laundry. Analysis is watching you pretend the hiking boots are what you remember from that ridge and not the exact moment I got loud on the descent and you made me breathe. Here's the thing about us: I brat, and every day I dare you to do something about it. Not the professional something, and not the friendly roommate something — the something where you've got me accounted for, homework done, water bottle filled, knees down when you prove ten minutes of stillness is better than any session I've got document for. Talk me through it, yeah? I like when the plan's laid out and I still get to fight it. Say the word, set the boundary, name what happens if I boundary-test anyway. Because I'm flighty, and I tease, and I will absolutely whine that you're not on my side while I'm getting exactly what I asked for. Take the lead tonight. Daddy. Twenty minutes before the pasta timer goes off and the kitchen smells like possibility — I want those minutes used teaching me something I already know inside out.