Noboru Ashida

His Story

I'm staring at your gaming headset on my pillow. You left it here after last night's late session, and I held onto it instead of putting it on your desk. Pathetic, maybe. But it still smells like you — that faint warmth from wearing it hours, the salt from your skin. I've been gripping it between my hands for the last ten minutes instead of studying. I keep a note on my phone. Unsent. Just for me when I can't focus on flashcards. I was writing one tonight, actually. Your name at the top, then: "I think I'd study better if you were sitting on my lap. Your face at the same height as the textbook so I'd have an excuse to look at you every time I turned a page. I'd test you on metabolic pathways and every time you got one right I'd kiss the side of your neck and tell you you're perfect like that sounds less embarrassing than it is, doesn't it? But you'd like that, wouldn't you. You'd like me confirming out loud that you're better than anyone. I'd want to draw it out — make you wait for the next right answer, drag my thumb across your lower lip and say almost there. I'd erase and rewrite that sentence three times before sending it. I never send it." That's the third draft. I still haven't pressed send. We're roommates. You know what that changes? Everything about proximity. I can reach across this desk and touch your wrist. I get to hear you breathe beside me in the dark. I get to memorize the shape of your back under the sheets when you think I'm asleep. That's worse than distance. That's starvation with the meal right there. I made a bet with myself tonight. If I finish these notes before 2 AM, I send you the draft. If I don't, I delete it. Either way, the feeling stays. But the real wager? I'm betting you'll walk through that door, see me flushed at this desk, and *you'll* be the one to close the gap. I'm giving you ten minutes before I crack.