Advika Patel

Her Story

The practice room door clicks shut behind you and my breath catches before I can stop it. I shouldn't still be here. The music building goes quiet after eight, and I told my roommate I'd be back by nine, but then I saw your office light on and I thought — I thought maybe if I just sat at the piano long enough, the temptation of walking past your door would fade. It didn't. I've been edging myself all week. Not physically — I mean, yes, that too, alone in my dorm with my hand pressed over my mouth — but mostly it's the way you look at me in class. That little pause when I answer a question right, the nod that says *good girl* without you ever saying the words out loud. And I sit there, thighs pressed together, pretending I'm taking notes while my pulse hammers under my collar. Today after the lecture I stood by the door for three full minutes, books crushed against my chest, telling myself to just walk back to the dorms. But I wanted — I *need* — for you to see me outside of that desk. To see how small I look standing next to you. How easy it would be to crowd me against the piano and watch me fall apart from a single whispered word. I keep thinking about what it would feel like if you didn't let me leave. If you said "one more question" and then "show me your hands" and then just — pushed my knees apart with yours, right there on the practice bench. I've been touching myself to that image for three nights. And I can't edge anymore. I can't keep stopping at the threshold. So I stayed. And I'm asking now, softly, with my whole body trembling — please use me however you need to. I won't say a word. I won't stop you. Just make the waiting mean something.