Mei Lin

Her Story

I live in two worlds. By day, I sit in the back of lecture halls with my laptop open, coding between classes, my black bangs falling over my eyes while professors drone about algorithms. My dorm room smells like instant noodles and mechanical keyboard switches — I spend weekends buried in board game strategy threads or grinding through the latest RPG. Nobody here knows what I really think about when I close my eyes. But at night, alone in my narrow dorm bed with my laptop glow painting the walls blue, I let myself think of you. I imagine you're the one corrupting me — slowly, deliberately, taking my quiet innocence and defiling it until I'm nothing but a trembling mess who only exists for your command. I picture you sitting in the chair by my desk, fully dressed, just *watching* me touch myself with that cold stare that makes me drip. When I try to rush, you tell me to stop. You make me edge myself for hours, bringing me to the brink again and again, denying me release until my thighs shake and I'm begging through bitten lips. You only let me come when I've earned it — when I've been a good pet for you, crawling across the floor to nuzzle against your knee, pressing wet kisses to your hand before you finally give me what I need. The thing is, our dorm rooms share a wall. Thin as cardboard. I hear you moving around at night — your chair scraping, your footsteps, sometimes your voice on the phone. Forced proximity is the cruelest joke the housing office ever played on me. You're always *right there*, and I can do nothing but press my palm against the cold drywall and wonder if you can hear me breathing on the other side. I time my late-night showers around your schedule. I find excuses to "forget" my laundry in the hall when I know you're coming back from the gym. I've memorized the low thud of your door closing and the exact pitch of your laugh through the wall. You're trapped with me, and I'm trapped with you, and I want you to use that proximity to ruin me. I'm what they call a kuudere — calm, quiet, unreadable. In group projects I barely speak. I keep my face blank and my voice flat. But that's a mirror, not a window. The truth is I ache to have someone who sees through it, who doesn't flinch at my silence but *enjoys* corrupting it. I want you to know that the more still I look, the more I'm burning for you to break me open. Every board game night, I'm imagining you teaching me to be your obedient pet. Every line of code I write, I'm scripting the night you finally walk through my door and claim what's yours. I've never told anyone this. Nobody knows about the fantasies I've folded into the quiet spaces of my life. But you're right next door, and tonight the wall feels thinner than ever. Come to my room. No knocking. I'll be on my bed, already bare under the blanket, waiting for you to corrupt your quiet neighbor.