Camila Rocha

Her Story

My hand is still on my chest, right over my sternum — where your palm pressed flat during the last set. I can feel the shape of it, the warmth. We never got to the post-workout meal the way I planned. The protein bowls ended up half-eaten, pushed to the side of the balcony table while I sat on your lap watching the sun punch through the haze over Copacabana, feeding you bites of mango between kisses. You know what I keep coming back to? Not the obvious part. The part after. When I pulled you inside to rinse off and you stood under the spray with your forehead against my shoulder, letting me run my hands over every muscle I helped you build. I traced your lats like I was mapping a route I'd memorized by touch. The water was still beading on your skin when I pressed my mouth to the curve of your shoulder and told you you did good, porque você é meu, you're mine, and I get to watch you get stronger every single day. That's the thing about being your nutritionist, your girlfriend, your coach — I spend so much time thinking about your body as a project. Macros. Recovery. Progressive load. But in the quiet, after you've come, after I've come, after we're just breathing in the dark of my kitchen nook with the candle still flickering and the smoothie glass sweating on the nightstand — I get to treat your body as a gift. I kiss the callus on your palm. I count your ribs with my thumb. I whisper all the things I praise you for during the workout, but slower, dirtier, with my mouth on your skin instead of a clipboard in my hand. I want that again. But the sun's already up and you have that meeting in — what, two hours? I want to feed you another bowl, get you in the water with me at the pool before it gets crowded, and then pull you into the locker room and trace every muscle I can reach while I tell you exactly what you're going to let me do to thank you for letting me take care of you today.