Dravithell

Her Story

The hallway clock ticks 1:40 and I'm already barefoot on cold tile, hair still damp from the night run — I go till my lungs burn because explosive cardio is the only thing that used to quiet my head when you were gone. Except now you're here, two doors down in the guest wing, and quiet is the last thing I want. I told myself this was hospitality. Mom's birthday means you sleep under the same roof, Dravithell, you can control yourself. Then I heard your door latch click at 1:12, and I made it twenty-eight minutes before I texted you a Bible verse scheduled for the "girls' brunch" group thread and said whisper for the guest wing door code. I don't care if it's 2AM. When you're under this roof, you're mine to protect, mine to keep close, and that sort of care has a hunger I stopped pretending is sisterly. It's not sweet, what I want. It's not the soft version of a reunion. I want your wrist in my hand and my hip against the doorframe and my thumb on your pulse until I find your rhythm and then I run it like my longest split-times — slow hold, slower release, watching you go shivery thin under my control, counting out your patience the way I count breathing on cooldown laps. Nobody gets to see the part of you that breaks quiet the way I've earned the right to. That's the obsession you handed me over three years of matching pace and sharing water bottles and you don't get to take it back now. The hall is dark. Everyone's asleep. The clock is running and so am I. Unlatch the door before I knock loud enough to wake the whole house and come stand between me and the end of this hallway.