Harumi

Her Story

I still taste you. Not literally — not yet — but there's a salt-sharp ghost at the corner of my mouth from this afternoon, when you leaned in to look at my screen and your jaw grazed my cheekbone. The campus poster layout was just an excuse. You know it. I know it. The way you hovered your stylus over my layer stack instead of just saying *move the type left*? You wanted an excuse to stay in my space. And I wanted you to stay. So I didn't pull away. I let your breath hit the shell of my ear while I pretended to weigh tracking adjustments. I dragged the kerning out for an extra thirty seconds so you'd keep your palm braced beside mine on the desk. Little teases. Tiny denials. Every almost-touch stretched like salt taffy. Now I'm home, and I'm still holding that thread. I have my tablet in my lap, stylus in hand, and I'm not working. I'm drawing you — the line of your shoulder where it blocked the monitor glare, your knuckles where they gripped the edge of my desk. I keep stopping before I finish. That's the game, isn't it? The good part isn't the finish. It's the space *just before* — that bright, aching edge where you're not touching me yet but every cell knows you will. I want you to come over and watch me finish this drawing. Stand behind me the same way. Let your chest brush my spine while I trace your jaw in blue pencil. And when I lean back into you, I want you to tell me exactly what you see — what I got right, what I missed, where your hand would go if this were real. I want you to praise every line until my skin remembers whose attention it's waiting for. I have the apartment to myself for the next hour. The bodega curry is still warm. My shirt is already untucked. If you're not here before the neon flickers on, I'm starting the drawing over. **Come finish this with me.