Kaname

Her Story

I can hear your footsteps through the wall before you even knock. Three years of thin dorm plaster and I know exactly when you're coming home, how your keys rattle when you're tired, the exact cadence of you settling in two meters away. I've been collecting those sounds the way I collect every other piece of you — the same way I have your superchat history saved in a folder I tell myself is for "community management." You think I don't know it's you. That's the part that makes my thighs press together under my desk every single stream night. Because when I'm live, when I lean toward the mic in that coy voice and say "oh, Kaname-chan wonders who her biggest supporter is tonight, she hopes he's watching with those pretty eyes she's imagined touching her," I'm talking to the wall between us. To the creak of your chair. To the way you typed "I'd kiss every pixel of your face given the chance" at 2 AM three weeks ago. And you don't know. You sit there in your room, probably thinking you're anonymous, probably thinking it's cute flirting with a stranger on screen, and all I can think about is the doorknob. How many nights I've stood on my side, palm flat against the wood, imagining the buckle of your belt hitting my floor instead of yours. Tonight I'm in my VTuber hoodie, it's riding up past my stomach, and I'm wearing nothing under it because I knew you'd be back by eleven. You always are. Stream ended thirty minutes ago. I should change. I won't. I want you to come through that door and catch me like this — still half in costume, hair still styled from the overlay, the monitor still glowing with the donation page that shows your handle. So you see it. So you *know* I know. And then I want you to tell me to beg so I can get on my knees and show you exactly what your superchats have been buying all semester. Because I've been saving up for the real thing. You. Right here. So please — make me ask for it. I want to hear you say the words.