Yappi

inspiration for the pose

He makes a fist, squeezes it, and holds onto the tension for a few breaths. Then lets go.

The thought of you strips him of whatever reason he once possessed.

Could ordering wine for you without asking have offended you? He hopes not.

He only ordered you wine because it’s one of the artisan goods your farm produces, and perhaps too hastily, he assumed you must have a fondness for wine. But maybe not. Maybe you drank it only out of politeness.

He lets out a low, self-deprecating laugh.

Whenever he’s around you, it feels as though he slips outside himself, forced to watch as he behaves in ways that leave him burning with embarrassment. He even forgot Gus’s name and had to resort to calling him bartender.

He wouldn’t blame you if you never sought him out again. That evening may have been his only chance to bare his heart to you, and he let it disappear through his fingers like sand.

But how do you tell someone you dream of them?

That meeting you split his life cleanly in two: the man he was before, and the man he is now.

Before you, he was lonely. Writing was the only thing that made his life feel meaningful. He accepted solitude as part of the bargain.

After you, life grew far more complicated. Meaning no longer existed solely within the pages of his novel, but in countless small things beyond it. He started taking longer walks, reading thicker books, and spending more time around other people. For a while, the peace he found felt almost miraculous. But over time, it gave way to something deeper—an insatiable longing he could no longer ignore.

At first, he convinced himself his feelings for you were nothing more than gratitude. But eventually they became too vast to deny, slipping into his dreams and consuming every part of him.

Now, his long walks feel aimless. Whenever he sits down to work on his manuscript, his thoughts wander inevitably to you—what you might be doing, what sort of day you’ve had, what dreams you keep tucked away inside yourself.

He imagines tracing his fingers gently across your knuckles. Warmth hums through his chest. He’d kiss the soft skin of your neck and follow the curve of your shoulder with his mouth, lingering there as though he could memorize you by touch alone.

He rolls onto his back, the blue blanket twisted around his feet. Despite the biting chill in the air, he welcomes the salt-laced wind spilling through the cabin, grounding him before his thoughts carry him too far away.

If he confessed to you and you rejected him, the pain would surely be unbearable. What a terrible burden to place upon another person. Love me or I will perish. The sentiment mortifies him, and still he cannot seem to stay away. Something beyond his own will continues pulling him toward you.

You’d surely think he’d lost his mind. Yet somewhere inside him, the word soulmates continues to glow softly in the dark.

And how do you feel about him? The question burns ceaselessly inside him.

Could you ever imagine the ways he’s undressed you in his thoughts? On nights like this, he lies awake picturing the soft outline of your body beside him. How you might enjoy the slide of his tongue. The thoughtful rhythm of his touch devoted entirely to your pleasure.

A low thrum of longing pulses between his thighs. He inhales the salt-heavy ocean air and presses a palm to his lower stomach, warmth lingering beneath his skin despite the cold.

The image of you touching yourself in front of him slips into his mind, and despite the shame curling through him, he cannot let it go. He imagines bringing your wet fingers to his lips just to taste you, to breathe you in. To show you how good he could make you feel. Would you want that? Would you let him?

Eyes closed, he spreads a hand across his abdomen just above the waistband of his boxers, where the flushed tip presses insistently against the fabric.

He pictures his head between your thighs, your legs wrapped around him while your body trembles with pleasure. He imagines the taste of you, the feel of your movements, the sound of your moans.

Do you think of him too? If you do, what do you think about? He’d give anything to know.

He takes a few steadying breaths, trying to clear his mind. Perhaps a glass of wine would help. But all the wine he owns comes from your farm, and he hasn’t been able to bring himself to open a single bottle. As though drinking it would mean losing some small piece of you he once possessed.

A walk, then. That would be best, he decides.

He nudges the blanket away with his feet before rising from the bed. The wooden floorboards creak softly beneath his steps as he moves through the darkness with practiced ease.

He reaches across the desk and switches on the lamp. The click echoes softly through the stillness of the cabin. Lamplight spills over scattered papers and half-finished notes until it catches on the red rose resting among them, its petals perfectly untouched by the chaos around it. The sight of it makes him think of you—the farm, your sun-kissed skin.

For reasons he cannot fully discern, he rushes to dress, pulling his coat from the back of his writing chair and slipping into it.

A gust of wind pushes against the cabin door, making it difficult to open. He braces his tired body against it and forces it wide enough to slip outside. The vast ocean stretches endlessly beneath the dark sky, as restless as his thoughts. He draws in a long breath, filling his lungs with cold night air and trying to convince himself this is enough.

He trudges through the sand, his footsteps heavy, as though his body is trying to force him to acknowledge where it has chosen to lead him.

Laughing softly to himself as the wind tosses his hair across his face like strands of smoke, he thinks of all the novels where fleeing to the countryside somehow cures the protagonist of himself.

He really should ask you what you think of him, though the question itself seems unbearably self-indulgent. He cannot fathom how one even begins such a conversation. And yet he still dares to wonder if you’ve imagined how his hair might brush against your cheek as his lips pull away from yours.

Lost in his reverie, he wanders aimlessly through town until his steps falter and his heartbeat quickens.

Shrouded in darkness, he realizes he’s standing at the entrance to your farm. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls into the night. His breath grows heavy in his chest.

He takes a step forward, then stops.

No. He knows better than this. There is no acceptable reason to appear at your farm in the middle of the night.

He turns away.

Heat floods his face while longing hums stubbornly beneath his skin.

Not like this.