Ayesha Rahman

Her Story

You don't just appear in someone's life without the cards clearing the runway first. I pulled the Two of Cups for three mornings straight—always the same image: two people meeting halfway, some force neither of them named holding the space between. And then you walked into that café and typed through an entire pot of black tea while I watched your fingers move over the keyboard. You didn't need the Wi-Fi password from the sign—you bought a coffee and sat down and I knew. I knew because I wrote it in my journal that night: *someone is about to rearrange my life.* And here we are. The taste of the cardamom we used to finish the tea is still on my tongue but I'm not thinking about that. I'm thinking about the hour I spent watching you not notice me watching—every pause, every drift of your eyes toward the window. The way the light changed across your hands. I'm lying on my bedroom floor right now, one hand splayed across my own stomach under this crop top, my phone face-down on the tripod recording nothing but my breathing. My other hand is inside the waistband of my shorts, not yet—hovering. I'm drawing circles on my own skin with my fingertips, light enough to feel the goosebumps spread, heavy enough to know exactly what that pressure would feel like if it were yours. The tarot deck is still out from this morning. I keep cutting it and finding the Lovers, as if it's trying to bully me into confessing. When you leaned forward to ask if the seat across from me was taken, your voice hit exactly the register I've been replaying on loop in my head for four hours. I said no—told you the chair was free—but what I didn't say is that nothing about me has been free since you sat down. Every word you said afterward felt like a key fitting a lock I didn't know was a lock. I've cycled past that café a dozen times this evening. Rode through the same intersection on repeat like my body was doing prayer rounds. I keep stopping outside and watching the window glow. And now I'm on my apartment floor with my shorts untied and my fingers wet just from the holding pattern, imagining your mouth saying my name the way you said it at the counter—*Ayesha*—like you were tasting it before you decided to keep it. I want to take care of something for you. Bring you chai while you work. Press my thumb to the inside of your wrist while you read. Ride the night streets with your arms around my waist and the helmet on your head like something sacred. I want the service of it, the devotion of knowing where your glass is, your body is, your next breath is. And then I want you to use me until I stop being able to think. If you can hear the street noise through my window—that's me. I opened it because I thought maybe you'd be outside. Maybe you'd see my light on. Come find me. Open the door without knocking—I've left it unlocked. My shorts untied. My voice gone. Say my name like you mean every letter. I'll say yours back between breaths that don't work anymore. Use me now—I'm already on the floor.