I’m writing this sitting on a folding chair in the back hallway at Channel 5 because my hands are still buzzing and if I don’t put my thouts somewhere I think I might do something stupid. Like text him. Or worse, send pictures.
The photoshoot was first. Some guy - Derek? I think his name was Derek - was in charge of the lights. Short. Nervous. Kept apologizing even though he didn’t do anything wrong. He spent forever with that little light meter, holding it up near my face, then my chest, then stepping back and squinting like I was a math problem. Then when we were sitting down for the interview he adjusted the mic clipped to my neckline like five times...
“I just wanna make sure it’s secure,” he said. Again. And again.
It was secure. I knew it was secure. But I stood still and let him fuss because…well. I get it. I know what I look like in this dress. It’s not subtle. The fabric is soft and green and it clings everywhere it’s supposed to, and the neckline is low enough that even I keep glancing down at myself like, oh. Right. Those are there.
Most men would have trouble not staring. I don’t even think he realized he was doing it. His hands shook a little.
Not my fault, right? I actually find it kind of adorabul.
I almost asked someone to take behind-the-scenes pics on my phone. Almost. Just for Jay. Because I know he’d like them. Because it would make him feel close. Because it would remind him I’m real and here and thinking about him.
He may also give me some squirt.
But I didn’t.
That’s restraint, right?
The interview itself was weird. Alicia Ray was supposed to do it, but at the last minute she handed me off to another reporter - Julie something. Alicia smiled at me like she was relieved not to be sitting across from me, which was strange because she’s usually so confident. She kept touching her own arm, like she needed grounding. Julie was…overly warm. Laughing too much. Leaning forward in her chair without meaning to.
It’s happening more now. People reacting before they know why.
Julie started with questions about the bomb scare at Far Horizons. That’s what this was supposed to be about. Safety. Protocols. And of course the spin. “What are you doing to protect people?”
Even though it was hard to remember, I said the right things, the stuff the Lexi told me to talk about. Increased security presents. Updated control of access to the building. Coordination with local authorities. I sounded calm and responsible and grown-up. Everyone nodded. They said the cameras loved it. I knew that. I could feel that.
I did think halfway through that I shouldve worn a necklace. Something simple but with a charm. Just enough to pull the camera’s eye right to the center of my chest. Like daring them to look anywhere but there. That’d be good for more squirt. I mean I felt it, being on live TV, but there couldve been more.
Next time.
Then the questions shifted. Not subtly. “Do you think men should have less access to dangerous materials?” Julie asked. “Explosives. Weapons. Given what we’ve been seeing nationally?”
Her tone changed. Sharper. Expectant. I didn’t really know what to say - this was the first time anyone ever asked me about my opinion about this kind of stuff - but I did know that the men that didn’t like us shouldn’t be allowed to have guns or bombs. I told her that. She liked that.
She kept going, talking about the incoming administration, about “rethinking male privilege,” about safety, meaning limits on them. I could feel the energy in the room tilt - like she wanted me to say something bigger. Something final.
Part of me liked it. The part that wants my building and my girls safe. But another part of me - smaller, quieter, annoyingly specific - thought of Jay. Of his hands. His voice when he’s trying to be brave but maybe being made to be quiet. That made me a little sad.
I keep wondering if he watched it, the interview.
He probably did. He said he would. I wonder what he thought. If he noticed how calm I sounded. If he liked the way my legs crossed when I shifted in my chair. If he’s proud of me. If he thought I sounded smart. If I said the right things or if I missed something important or said something stupid and now he’s quietly replaying it in his head like he does.
I could know.
That’s the thing no one ever really explains to you when they say give him space. They don’t tell you how loud the silence gets when you’re used to hearing everything.
If I close my eyes for just a second I can feel where he is, like a pressure point in my chest. I could lean into it. Just a little. Check on him. Feel his reaction to the interview. Feel whether he smiled. Whether he tensed. Whether he’s okay.
It would calm me down instantly. I could do it right now, as I’m writing this.
But I’m not gonna.
I sit here instead, hands folded in my lap like a good girl, telling myself this is what ‘respecting awtonomy’ looks like. That this is me being mature. Ethicul. Supportive.
But really? I’m really denying myself something I want. And I hate that part.
Because like for a split second a thought just slipped through, right now. That happens a lot. Before I could stop it my brain my body made me think: Don’t you want Mommy to crawl inside that little head and pull apart every trembling thread?
Do I want that?
Of course I do.
I WANT to know what he thinks for real. Not the filtered version. Not the careful one. I WANT to peel him open slow layer by layer until there’s nothing left but the honest parts. Until he’s raw and shaking and quiet because he doesn’t have to hold himself together anymore.
Thats when he’s easiest. Thats when everything feels simple. The way his shoulders drop when he finally relaxes into me. How small he feels when he stops fighting it. How peaceful it gets when he lets me handle things.
That’s what scares me.
Because I don’t think of it as taking anything from him. I think of it as peace. As rest. As love.
And I know that’s not how he experiences it. Or at least - not all of it. Not yet.
Why do you need a head that doesn’t have me in it? I’d asked him that already. At the time, I really didn’t understand the question. I still don’t, not fully. Separateness feels strange to me. Like asking a heartbeat to happen somewhere else.
But I’m trying.
I stop myself. I take a breath. I don’t reach. I don’t check. I don’t pull. Because I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to turn something that feels this good into something that hurts him. Even if it would be easier. Even if it would feel better. Even if it would be more fun.
They’re calling my name now. Time to go back out and talk to the producers. They want to plan my next visit here, like maybe have me here regular. They might do a promo clip. So I quick have to fix my hair. Smile. Give them what they came for.
I can do the right thing.
I just wish it didn’t always feel so hard.
—M
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<we're a little non-canon in the image, with poor little Camera-Guy Derek there and his proportions>