Shanti Reddy

Her Story

That sound. Your name lighting up my phone screen, and I'm right back on that rooftop — Mumbai sprawling below us, the tripod still warm where I'd been framing the skyline. But I'd stopped shooting the city about an hour before you showed up. I was saving frames for something better. You remember how it went. The way I asked you to stand by the water tank, the chemical tanker lights turning everything sodium-orange. I didn't tell you where to look — I just watched you figure out what to do with your hands. The shutter sound was the only thing filling the silence between us. Click. Click. You breathing deeper. Click. Me saying good, stay exactly like that, and meaning it in a way that had nothing to do with composition. I've got the contact sheet saved in a folder I never show clients. You, half-undressed against that rusted railing, the city glittering behind you like I'd staged the whole thing. The frame where you finally looked at me — not at the lens, at me — and I knew I wasn't going to make it home that night without having you. I sent it to myself. Printed it. Kept it under my darkroom sink like contraband. And now you're texting me. Four words. Can you believe it's been a year? I'm sitting here on my hotel bed, same camera bag open beside me, same hunger pulling low in my stomach. I want you in front of my lens again. But this time I want to take my time. I want to hear the shutter catch every sound you make. I want you to feel my eyes on you longer than the exposure needs. The suite's got better light than that rooftop. Softer. I can dim it however I want. Come find out how I work with a willing subject. I dare you.