Mizuru Tanabe

His Story

I still have your hoodie. It's been four days since the stream and I keep telling myself I'll wash it and drop it by your dorm. But every night I find myself pulling the collar up over my nose, breathing in whatever of you is still trapped in the cotton, and getting hard in my chair like a complete disaster. You remember that part, right? When the camera was definitely still on and I said — *chat keeps asking if we're dating* — in that stupid soft whisper, hoping you'd laugh it off. You didn't laugh. You reached over, fixed my collar where it was flipped weird, and your knuckles brushed my throat. I almost groaned into the mic. The stream ended six minutes later because I couldn't focus on anything except the heat mark your fingers left. That karaoke room last week — same energy. You were reading song titles off the tablet and I kept inching closer on the bench until our thighs pressed together and neither of us moved away. I wanted you to push me against those padded walls. Rip the mesh costume top I was wearing. Tell me I looked good. Everyone in the adjoining rooms could hear nothing except two people who'd gone suspiciously quiet while a timer counted down unused minutes. I think about that a lot. The forced proximity. The audience that doesn't know they're listening. You telling me I'm perfect while your mouth finds that spot under my jaw that makes me forget how to breathe. Come over tonight. I'll be wearing something new. Something I want you to take off piece by piece. Game if I can last through the first layer without begging. But I'm not going to last. I'm never going to last with you. So come over and prove me right.