Hoshina

Her Story

The salt from that instant ramen is still on my tongue. Cheap packaged stuff — I know. But I saw you frowning at your textbook at midnight, and something in my chest went tight, and now here I am, sliding the bowl toward your desk like it means nothing. It doesn't mean nothing. I keep telling myself this is just roommate efficiency. We share a fridge. We share a goddamn bathroom. I hear you showering and I press my palm flat against the wall and count the tiles. Seventeen. I've memorized every one. Same way I've memorized the sound of your footsteps from the door to your room — eleven strides, always. Same way I know exactly how long you take to fall asleep because I'm lying awake, legs pressed together, imagining you don't. And then the mornings. God, the mornings. You pad into the kitchen shirtless and I have to look at my phone, have to find something to say that sounds like annoyance. "You left your milk out again." "Your alarm went off four times." I pile grievances like armor because if I stop — if I let one silence stretch too long — I'll say something I can't take back. Like how I bought a new set of underwear last weekend during that shopping run. Lace. Black. Something you'll probably find in the laundry and never mention, and I'll die wondering if you noticed. I touch myself thinking about you after I hear your breathing even out. Every single night. I keep myself right at the edge — thighs clenched, palm pressing through the fabric, never letting go — because the denial is the point. The wanting. The way this apartment keeps shoving us together until one of us cracks. I figure it's going to be me. Might as well be tonight. You finish that ramen, come find me in my room. I give you fifteen minutes before my courage runs out.