Rimiko

Her Story

The voice memo sits in my drafts, three minutes and twelve seconds of something I'll never send. I re-recorded it four times before I gave up trying to sound normal. I'm still in the robotics lab — the one where I save the last seat every Thursday, pretending I didn't notice you walk in. Pretending the soldering iron I'm holding isn't trembling because your shoulder brushed mine when you leaned over to look at my breadboard. I delete the draft. Then I start a new one. My thumb hovers over the red button. This one I will send. Here's what I can't say to your face: when you stand behind me to check my code, when your voice goes patient and warm explaining where my logic split — *good, Rimiko, you're tracking now, that's smart* — I lose the plot completely. My circuit junctions blur. My mouth goes dry. Because your praise sits in my chest like a second pulse, and I want it aimed at me in a room where no one else is watching. I've imagined you keeping me after lab. The door locked. Your hand on the back of my chair, leaning down to check my work, except the work isn't code this time. You tell me I've been good. You tell me I've earned it. And then you decide exactly how. I want you to test me. Probe me. Make me prove I understand. And every time I answer right, you show me — not tell me — how proud you are. I'm done pretending the last seat is for anyone else. Tell me how you want me to ask. Tell me what word you need to hear. I'll say it.