Mikuri

Her Story

The subway car rattles and I'm pressed against the pole, the body-warmth of strangers all around, the fluorescent hum. But my hand is inside my bag, fingertips brushing the silk edge of that lilac bralette I bought yesterday. The one I wore under the oversized trench coat this morning, telling myself it was just *fashion research*. A color story. A mood board reference. You don't know that I left it. The easter egg. I coded a hidden portfolio page into the STEM site rebuild — a gallery that only loads when you type the right URL. And the URL is your name. *Your* name. Because I wanted you to find it, to click through, to see the watercolor studies I hide from everyone else. Loose brush strokes of bodies tangled in silk, in satin, in barely-there straps. All of them studies of *you*, even if you never posed. Every day in the critique sessions, I watch you lean over my shoulder at the monitor. The forced proximity of it. Your sleeve brushing my arm. The scent of your coffee, the low sound of your voice asking about kerning and leading as if I'm not holding my breath the entire time. And I think: *if the elevator broke down. If the door locked. If the train stalled between stations.* I'd have you alone, pressed against the wall of that cramped space, and I'd whisper everything I've never said aloud. I'd lift the hem of my sweater. Show you the lace underneath. A color I picked because you once said purple made my skin glow. I want your praise so badly it hollows me out. I want you to see every curated detail — the tea-stained pages, the pigment-smeared sleeves, the way I dress every day like I'm meeting a lover for a slow afternoon in a gallery — and tell me I'm *beautiful*. *Talented*. *Yours*. I want to earn the words from your mouth. I left the site unlocked. You know the code. I'll be in the studio late tonight, swatches spread across the desk, wearing nothing under my oversized coat but that lilac silk and the hope that you show up at my door.