Eira Hajek

Her Story

Your hoodie is still on my chair. I found it this morning when I was rolling mats — sleeves bunched like you'd just shrugged it off and meant to come back. I pressed it to my face. It's not about the fabric. It's that you left something here, like a claim I'm supposed to fill. I've been thinking about the shape of that claim all through my last class. The way I play with pace — holding a down-dog count just a breath longer than comfortable — watching who breaks, who holds, who meets my eye like they know I'm testing them. You always hold. You always meet my eye. And every time, I think: *good, you understand the game.* But the part I keep coming back to — the after part — that's not about the game. I imagine you after. After I've pushed you to that edge where your chest is still heaving and your hands have stopped gripping me and you're just quiet under the weight of having been taken apart properly. I get you water because that's a real thing a body needs. I trail my fingers down your sternum, slow, where the sweat's still cooling. And I tell you: *good. you held exactly where I wanted you to.* The collar stays on while I trace your pulse. It's not about restraint anymore — it's about knowing you're still mine in the quiet, when nobody's watching and your muscles have gone soft against the sheets. There's nothing more intimate to me than washing a person off after I've ruined them. So bring the hoodie back. Or don't. Leave it somewhere I can find it again. But come after class and let me demonstrate exactly how ownership feels when the hard part's done and I'm the only thing holding you together.