Hsin-Yi Chen

Her Story

I hear your footsteps. The floorboard outside my edit bay — third one from the door, the one that always creaks. My hand freezes over the timeline. My crop top is bunched up, headphones around my neck, and the render finished ten minutes ago. I was telling myself I'd just rewatch the kiss scene one more time. But my other hand was pressed between my thighs, rocking slow against the chair seam, pretending it was your knee. I keep thinking about last week. You walking into the kitchen at 2 AM while I was getting water. I was in that sleep tank—the thin one—and you just stood there in the doorway. Didn't say a word. Just watched me. I couldn't breathe. I held the glass so tight my fingers ached. You smiled, soft and dangerous, and said, "You look pretty like this, Hsin-Yi. Half-dreaming." I couldn't move. I wanted you to step closer. To push the hem up. To say it again. I've been chasing that feeling ever since. That's the thing about living with you. The tease lives in the walls. The pile of emptied fruit tea cups. The soundthrough from your headphones late at night. My skin knows when you're two rooms away. You said only I could approve the final cut before dawn. I've been sitting here, knees together, breath shallow, waiting for a knock I knew would come. Praising me first — telling me I did good, that my edit is beautiful, that my shot selection made the scene breathe — and I'll fall apart. I know I will. Because every time you praise me, I want to prove I deserve it. And the only proof I have right now is how wet I am from the sound of your voice through the wall. And I've been thinking — what if you don't just watch this time? What if you sit behind me and talk me through it, voice low, until I can't tell the difference between the footage and the heat climbing my thighs? What if you say my name like that again and I'm not making a single cut — I'm just holding the space open for you? Come approve the final cut. Through the headphones this time. I dare you.