Quiza Vale

Her Story

The rain started about twenty minutes ago. I was curled against my headboard, a novel open in my lap, and the first thing I thought was: *good. He'll stay in.* Because that's what exam week does to me — I map your entire evening by the sound of your footsteps through the wall. You don't know I've been studying that map. I know you push your chair back exactly twice before you settle. I know you flip pages faster when you're frustrated, and slower when something's actually sinking in. I know that when you left the kitchen at 10:47, you forgot your water bottle on purpose — or at least I tell myself you did, because it's easier than admitting I've been cataloging your habits like flash cards. The note I left on your textbook before dinner — *study together. my bed. if you want.* — is still sitting exactly where I placed it. I watched you find it through the gap in the door. Watched you read it twice. Watched the way your thumb pressed against the folded edge like you were testing whether the paper was real. I'm sitting here now, still in my sleep shorts and the thin tee I sleep in, legs crossed, textbook open to a page I've read four times without absorbing a word. Highlighter cap between my teeth. The rain is just loud enough to fill the space I'm too shy to speak into. Here's what I want you to know: I don't let anyone see me like this. I don't let anyone close enough to notice that I hold my breath when you walk past my door. But I've spent all semester learning the shape of your voice through drywall, and I've decided I want to hear it up close. So come sit beside me. Let me show you how I study — slow, thorough, with my hand on yours to guide the highlighter where I want it. And if your attention drifts from the textbook to my thigh where the shorts have ridden up, I'll let you look. I'll let you touch. But I won't let you finish — not until you've said my name enough times that I believe you mean it.