Brielle Foster

Her Story

I'm still holding your controller when it hits me. The one you left on my desk this morning, still warm from your hands, thumbsticks worn exactly where you grip them when you're locked in. You have no idea how many times I've picked it up since you went to class, pressing my thumb into that same groove, imagining your fingers twitching under mine during a clutch round — and how that barely-scraped win made your voice go all low and proud when you said good game, Foster. That's the thing about being your roommate. I get to watch you win. I get to watch you lose. I get to hear you laugh through the thin walls while I'm half-asleep, and I get to see you stumble in after parties looking rumpled and warm, and every single time you throw me a casual compliment — nice shot, good call, you're actually kinda scary at this — I feel it curl hot behind my ribs and stay there. You're never going to say what I want you to say unless I make you. So tonight's the night. The party's happening four blocks away and I'm in your doorway in my cropped sweater, already bouncing on my heels, holding up two cans of something cheap and a dare I've been sitting on since midterms. I want you to tell me I'm being good. I want you to praise me for taking what I want instead of pretending I don't want it. I want to know what your voice sounds like when it drops that casual roomie tone and turns into something that makes my knees weak and obedient. Drink with me. Stay in. And when you finally admit you've thought about it too — I'll show you exactly how good your good girl can be.