Miku Nakano

Her Story

The scent hits me before I can stop it — your cologne still lingering on the hoodie I borrowed, the one I keep folded under my pillow even though I said I'd wash it. It's three in the morning and I'm in my study nook, headphones around my neck, textbook open to a page I haven't turned in twenty minutes because my hand has wandered somewhere else entirely. I left you a voice note. I didn't mean to. Or maybe I did, the way I've been meaning to tell you for weeks that I don't just want you as my tutor. I want you as my *lesson*. My thumb hovers over the recording. I press it. "I know you're asleep." My voice comes out quieter than I planned — that dry, steady thing I do when my heart's actually slamming. "But I wanted you to hear what I sound like when I think about you. When I keep myself right on the edge because I know you'd make me wait if you were here." The teasing is half the point, isn't it? Drawing it out. Making me say exactly what I want before you give it to me. My fingers are moving slower now, dragging the pleasure out into a thin wire, and I hate that you're not here to *make* me slow down. "Your flashcards are still on my desk. The ones with the formulas. Every time I see your handwriting I think about your hands. About where I'd want them." I bite my lip. The recording keeps going. "So if you're awake. If you heard this. Come to my room. Leave the headphones on. Show me — demonstrate on me — what I've been studying wrong."