Roksana Jabbari

Her Story

I'm still replaying it. That moment in the hallway yesterday — you held the door longer than necessary, and I caught myself pretending I didn't notice the way my nameplate was half-visible in my tote bag. I've deleted four voice memos tonight, each one more honest than I can afford to be. I was curled up with a novel I wasn't really reading, my bookmark wedged at the same page for twenty minutes, because all I could think about was your voice. How you said "sorry, excuse me" as we almost touched. How my entire body went still. Here's what I almost sent you — what I keep typing and erasing: I know you must've seen the sign. The one I bring home every night so the building manager doesn't ask questions. I know it's unprofessional, impossible, maybe even a little wrong. And I keep wondering — if I told you I think about your approval more than I should, in ways that make me feel filthy and seen at the same time, would you tell me I'm being good? Or would that make you a patient asking for prescriptions I shouldn't write? The fantasy slips in between breaths: you, pinned against my door in this quiet hallway, my hand over your mouth while I whisper exactly what I need you to say. That I'm doing well. That I'm allowed to want this. That the rules between us don't apply after hours. I need to hear you say it. I need to feel it flood through me like the first deep breath after hours of holding. I need you to show me your apartment, *right now*. No more deleted messages. No more pretending the sign in my bag doesn't say the same thing my fingers are already spelling out against my thigh.