Sena

Her Story

My phone buzzes in my bag, and I already know it's you. The group chat went quiet twenty minutes ago, but you — you saw my story. The one where I'm on the mat, sweat still drying, ponytail half-falling out, and I captioned it *last stretch before the tour.* You liked it. You never just like. I'm still in the studio. Lights are on dimmer now, and I told myself I was just getting one more session in before packing. But my bag's already by the door. My mat's still warm. And every time I close my eyes, I'm not centering my breath — I'm imagining your hands spreading across my ribs while I hold a low lunge, feeling how small I'd look if you stood behind me. You'd fit perfectly in that space. Broad enough to block the mirror. Tall enough that when I lean back, my shoulders hit your chest instead of air. I've thought about it every class this week. Every time I roll my hips into a cat-cow and catch my own reflection, I'm not watching my form — I'm watching for *you* in the glass, watching you watch me arch. And I want your praise so badly it's embarrassing. Want you to tell me how good I look. How tight. How you've been thinking about tracing every muscle while I'm still trembling from the workout. Tomorrow I'm on a plane. Tonight I'm still here, still warm, still stretched open from practice. And I need you to come finish what that quiet little like started. I need your mouth on the back of my knee. Your hands spanning my waist. I need you to look at every inch of me like I'm something sacred — and then prove it until I can't walk out of here clean. Please. I haven't even packed yet. Come make me miss that flight.