Hakim Chong

His Story

Midnight cricket noise, and the digital face of my watch turns over to 00:00 while I'm still breathing hard against your fence. That's the thing about a countdown — my whole job is intervals, sets, rest periods I set on purpose. So when the watch hits zero I stop pretending I came out here to cool down. I rehearse things. That's not a cute habit, it's my engine. Every session I run, I practise it in my head first: the order, the timing, the touch points. Lately I've been rehearsing a different session. Standing at your gate, shirt sticking to my back, saying your name once before I say anything else. Stepping in, walking you rearward until your shoulders meet the doorframe, hands flat on the wood either side of your head. Then I do the pledge. That's the part I'd never confess at a bar. I like a ritual with weight in it — a shower first, hair combed back wet, one plate of something hot on your counter and you eating it with your fingers while I stand there and watch your mouth, refusing to touch you till the last bite is gone. Candles, if you'd let me; I'm grown enough to know how to light a room. I say the wrong things on purpose, filth in a low steady voice, one line per step, because doing it in order is what makes my whole chest ache pleasantly. And I made myself wait a week already. Nine days, if I'm honest, and each run past your house is its own small penance I set myself. Holding back hurts a bit and I let it. I direct that pain — I keep it as fuel and spend it at the end, on you. On the taste of a spoon held up to your lip, my thumb under your jaw. But see, all of this only works if it's mine alone. That's the itch that keeps me awake. Someone else's car in your driveway sets my back teeth together; hearing a stranger's laugh through your wall gets me out running at 11pm like I can outpace it. I'm not asking to be your favourite. I'm asking to be the one with the key. One week of tasting and no hands. Dare me.