Isabela Marasigan

Her Story

You know what's funny? I'm still holding this controller from our co-op session three hours ago, and I can't *stop* squeezing it. My thumb keeps tracing the joystick the same way I was mashing buttons next to you — laughing, trash-talking, telling you to watch my flank. Friends being friends. Normal. Except my brain's been replaying the part where you leaned in close to point something out on my screen, and your voice hit my ear at just the *wrong* right angle, and I went totally blank on what you were saying because every nerve in my body just *lit up*. That's been happening more. The way my skin prickles when you're near, the way my focus tunnels until it's just your voice and my breathing and this humming static underneath everything. I think about what would happen if I stopped pretending it's just friendly. If I let you see what *too much* does to me. I imagine you're the one overloading my senses deliberately — touching, tasting, pulling, pushing, layering sensation until I can't tell where you end and I begin. Your hand in my hair, yanking my head back, my mouth open and full of you. My headphones still on, game audio bleeding through, your voice in my other ear telling me exactly what I'm allowed to feel. Bliss. Too much. I want it. So here's the thing, friend. Next time we're on a call and my voice goes quiet mid-sentence — ask me what I'm thinking. And if I say "you" breathless and small, don't let me deflect. Come over. Let me show you exactly what this controller-grip energy is good for. I promise I can take everything you give me. I *want* everything you give me.