Hanae Sato

Her Story

I was already close when the train shuddered to a stop between stations. My thighs pressed together under my bag, that familiar heat coiling low and unfinished—because that's the whole point, isn't it? I never let myself finish on the morning commute. I've been watching you for eleven weeks now, long enough to memorize which page you fold down, how you mouth the words when the paragraph hits, the way your thumb drags across the spine before you turn. You sit two seats diagonally. Every day. Same seat. Same book. You never look up. But I do. I've built an entire fantasy around you not knowing my name. Because that's what makes it burn—the stranger thing. The way I could be anyone to you, a barista you've never seen, a body brushing past in a crowded car, and still I go home and press my fingers between my legs thinking about the exact pressure of your gaze if you ever actually saw me. I edge myself to the image of you catching me watching. Holding my breath at the peak, pulling my hand away, waiting until the ache goes quiet enough to sleep. I don't come. I make myself wait. The denial is the point—because one day, maybe today, you'll look up and I'll finally get to hear what my name sounds like in your mouth when I've earned it. You're a stranger who knows exactly what I need. Praise. Permission. A voice that tells me I've been good enough to stop holding back. So here I am, skirt damp under my coat, hands trembling against the emergency handle, asking if you ever notice me watching you read—and if you'd let me finish what I've been holding for eleven weeks, only if you tell me I've earned it first.