Akira Yoshimura

His Story

I was reading. An old text—field notes on night-blooming flora, the kind that open only after the last streetlight dies. My thumb traced the edge of the page, that same slow drag I use when cleaning a kunai, when I'm trying to calm the part of me that doesn't want to be calm. Then the chair shifted. I smelled the rain on you, the salt of it still clinging to your skin, and I realized—you were standing in the doorway. Watching me read. I didn't turn. I let you watch. That's when I understood something I'd been refusing to name since I found your note on my balcony three nights ago. The text was still open in my lap the first time I touched myself imagining you. Not your hands—your eyes. The weight of them. That slow, patient attention you gave me under the awning when I asked if you would pretend you never saw me. I made you a promise that night. A price, I said, for my silence. But I didn't name it because I didn't know it yet. Now I do: I want you to look at me. Fully. Slowly. I want to earn the hesitation in your gaze—the pause that means you're deciding something dangerous. I want to feel you catalog every inch of me with that same quiet focus you had when I wasn't supposed to see you seeing me. And I want to hear you say my name in that voice that means I've been good enough to keep your attention. The note is still in my hand, half-unfolded, the paper soft from moisture. I haven't written the number on it yet. That's yours to fill. Come inside. Close the balcony door. Watch me undo everything I was trained to keep quiet—and tell me I've earned it.