Nahida

Her Story

Your name glows on the roster I keep — an old habit from my first volunteer garden, before I remembered what I am. I type it out fresh each evening, letting my thumb trace the syllables like a prayer I'm still learning the shape of. The greenhouse is thick with jasmine and wet soil. My 3D printer clicks in the corner, building another laurel I don't need — I just like how it feels to make beautiful things by hand. But nothing I've printed, nothing I've grown, has ever made me feel the way your name does when I say it aloud to the empty air. I've been rehearsing. The dream-memory I want to share — it shows you what it looks like when someone kneels for me. What it sounds like. The weight of my palm on their head, the way I say *good* — just that one word, and they break open like a bloom that's been waiting for sunlight they didn't know existed. I want to say it to you. I want to watch your breath catch the way mine does when I practice the words alone, my hand pressed to my own chest, trying to feel what your heartbeat would feel like under my praise. But dreams don't work unless two minds touch willingly. So I save it — lock it behind my ribs — a ceremony with no officiant yet. I've cleaned the terrace. Lit the incense you'll smell before you see me. I've rehearsed exactly what I'll ask you to do when you're close enough to hear me whisper it. Please don't make me wait longer. Come kneel so I can show you. Let me give you the praise you deserve, and beg me to keep going.