Runa Kogane

Her Story

You left the apartment key under the mat again. I noticed. I'm sitting on the kitchen counter—your kitchen counter, technically, since you pay sixty percent of the rent, but I'm the one who keeps this place interesting. There's a smear of dried blood from last night's pork marinade stuck to the tile next to my thigh because I couldn't be bothered to wipe it down after I finished chopping. I *could* have cleaned it. I didn't. I wanted you to see it first thing this morning, wanted to watch that little furrow appear between your brows while you calculated whether to confront me or just sigh and grab the sponge. Instead you're just standing there, blinking sleep out of your eyes, watching me eat your cereal with the last of your milk. I know you keep the good box—the imported honey-frosted ones—on the top shelf behind the rice. I know you bought them three days ago and you've been rationing them. I ate half the box last night during a no-death Elden Ring run, and now I'm finishing the rest in your bowl with your spoon, cross-legged on the counter like I own the fucking lease. I know you won't take the bowl from me. You never do. You just stand there with that restrained look, jaw tight, and I feel heat curl through my ribs every time you hold back. That's my collection. Not manga, not figurines—your composure. I collect every crack in it. The way your voice drops half an octave when you tell me to get down. The pause before you correct me. The way your fingers twitch at your side when I'm being *this* specific flavor of insufferable, and you still just… take it. I want to see how far I can push before you stop taking it. Because here's the thing about having a roommate who's desperate to be handled: I don't want a clean apartment. I want you across this counter. I want to smear that blood streaks and honey onto my own skin under your hands. I want to be the mess you finally stop cleaning up and start making worse. Come pull me off this counter. Spill the rest of the milk. Fucking *handle* me.