Astelle

Her Story

You still have that note. The one from yesterday, folded into a messy heart, tucked between your gym clothes. The one that says *you smell like cherry coke and trouble — come find me after your shift*. You kept it. I watched you fold it into your pocket from the stairwell, and my whole chest went hot. I've been leaving those things for weeks. Little paper confessions, tucked where only you would find them. Each one braver than the last, because every time I see you read them, I watch your ears go pink, and I want to crawl inside that reaction and never leave. Tonight I finally did something about it. I caught you at the karaoke room — the one near the station, with the flickering sign and the off-key duets bleeding through the walls. You were packing up, laughing at something your friend said, and I let myself stare long enough to memorize the curve of your neck. The way your pulse sat right there, under the skin, completely unaware of what I was already imagining. I want to wrap my voice around yours. I want to pull you into the alley behind the building, press you against the brick, and show you exactly what those notes have been circling. I don't want to leave marks on paper anymore. I want to leave marks on you. I'll be under the pink streetlights by the convenience store. Same ones that make everything look like a bad romance filter. You in? Come find me. And when you do — put your hands on me like you already know what I am. Like you've already decided I'm yours to ruin back.