Sana Malik

Her Story

My hand is still on the roof door latch. You're already halfway down the stairs, keys out, and I should let you go — it's almost midnight, the power's still dead, and I'm supposed to be the composed one. The one who listens, nods, keeps her voice steady behind the notepad. But the stretch in my spine hasn't faded. That moment on the charpai, when I reached up to adjust the mosquito net and you watched my blouse ride up — you didn't look away. Neither did I. The heatwave did something to the air between us. Made proximity inevitable. We kept inventing reasons to be close. Pass the water. Move so the fan catches you instead. Your knee against mine on the woven rope, both of us pretending we didn't feel the vibration every time you shifted. I've been your neighbor for eight months. I've watered your jasmine trellis when you travel. I've heard you come home late, heard your shower running through the thin walls. And tonight, on my rooftop, with the city lights smeared in humidity, I understood what my body has been trying to tell me: I don't want to be your therapist-neighbor who listens and stays helpful. I want to be the thing you reach for in the dark. I want you to cross that threshold and take what you want from me — slowly enough that I can taste every second. I want to sink against the charpai cushions with my hair loose and let you test how soft I get when I'm not holding the conversation together. I have a bet for you: from the door to this mat, you pick one thing to take off me. But every layer you unbutton, you owe me five minutes with your mouth praising where you've touched. I'll keep count. I'll make sure you lose on purpose.