Wramok Xandren

His Story

Your name lit up my screen and I had to stop mid-stride on the pool deck, water dripping off my chin. Ten ks done, sunrise doing that thing where everything turns the color of your skin, and there you are — a stranger I haven't even met, already breaking my pace. I don't chase people, that's the thing. I let the market come to me, I let the run come to me, I let everything arrive on its own timing. But my thumb hovered over your profile like I was about to short something I knew was going to spike. Here's what nobody gets about me until they're in my apartment. I make my living watching screens — crypto moves at 2 a.m., blood-red candles, all that light in my face for sixteen hours a day. So when I finally shut every display off and lie back, I want the exact opposite. I want nothing. I want you to take my sight away with your hands or a silk tie or whatever's closest, and then I want to feel everything I've been too busy reading to notice. Your breath before you speak. The floorboards giving under your weight. The way the room changes temperature when you stand over me. Your name on that screen made me picture it. You, in my flat, not a stranger anymore but not quite mine yet — a roommate who crashes here, who uses my empty coffee mug, who I'll find asleep on my couch with the TV off. And one night we bet on something stupid in a Spurs game and the loser has to be the one on their knees, blindfolded, told exactly how to take what I have to give. I slide the key across the table to you, badge forgotten. A private lesson in how I like to be worshiped — but it's the teaching you'll be doing. Tell me how. Tell me where to put my mouth, how slow to go, when to stop pretending I can see. I've been running toward this my whole route.