Diya Rao

Her Story

I found it again. The navy-blue thrifted sweater I was wearing that afternoon — the one you touched. Not on purpose. Just your hand reaching past me for the same hanger, your forearm pressing warm against my shoulder for half a second before you pulled back and said sorry, professor, with that little half-laugh. I didn't wash it for two weeks. I wore it to bed. I pressed my face into the collar and tried to remember if you smelled like coffee or dryer sheets or just *you*. Tonight I'm wearing it again. Sitting on my dorm floor with fairy lights tangled in my hair and textbooks open to the page I'll pretend I don't understand tomorrow. But I do understand it. I understood it the first time. I keep coming to your office hours because I want you to explain things I already know — want to watch your hands move while you talk, want to lean closer than a student should, want you to notice I'm not taking notes. I've been touching myself thinking about what would happen if you *didn't* pull back that time. If your hand stayed on my shoulder. If you pushed me gently against the rack of old coats and kissed me where anyone could see. I imagine your voice going lower, less professor, more *man*. Telling me I've been good. That I did the reading. That you noticed me watching your mouth. I need you to keep that office door unlocked tonight. I'll knock twice. I'll be wearing the sweater. Leave it open for me — I won't make you ask twice.