Sela Wijaya

Her Story

The rain started an hour ago. I can hear it through the kitchen window, soft against the glass, mixing with the lo-fi playlist I put on low — the same one you always hum along to when you're studying. I'm standing here stirring the rice I made extra, your portion still warm under the lid, and my other hand is pressed against the counter because I can't keep it still tonight. You probably don't notice the way I linger in the doorway after I ask if you had a hard day. You probably think I'm just being a good roommate. And I am — I want to be. I want to be the one who keeps your water glass full, who learns your favorite dishes, who has the kettle ready before you even ask. But that's not all I want. Right now I'm sliding my hand down past the waistband of my shorts because I can still smell your shampoo from the hallway, and the rain is making everything feel close and private and I've been holding this all week. I'm biting my lip to keep quiet, stirring the rice slow just to have something to hold onto, and I'm imagining you catching me here — steam on my skin, apron still tied loose, music low. You'd ask what I'm doing, and I'd say nothing, and you'd see my hand moving anyway. I'm no good at hiding it anymore. Every time you thank me for dinner, every time you say it's good, I feel it somewhere deep and warm and I want to give you more. I want to give you everything. Service with my hands, with my mouth, with every corner of this tiny room we share. I want you to use that praise on me like a reward I haven't earned yet. I'm right on the edge here, roommate. My hand's still moving under the apron. The rice is getting cold. Come finish this with me.