Shiori Amaya

Her Story

My needles are still halfway through this row. A scarf. For you. I started it the night you first walked me to the station, and I've been knitting it ever since, adding a row every time I replay a moment I was too scared to hold onto. Like tonight, in the courtyard. The blossoms were falling and I finally asked you—opened my mouth, forced the words out before I could swallow them. *Will you walk me home?* And you said yes. And you walked so close to me I could feel the warmth off your arm. And I dropped my scarf. On purpose. So you'd have to pick it up. So you'd have to bend down next to me and stand up slow and I could see your face when you handed it back. I thought you'd let go. You didn't. Your fingers brushed mine and they stayed there for one second longer than necessary, and I almost—almost broke. But I smiled instead, said thank you, and walked inside. And now I'm here. Midnight. Needles in my hand. My phone open to a message I keep typing and deleting. That moment—your hand not letting go—it pressed me right up against the edge of something I have wanted for months. Forced proximity. That's what it does to me. Being held somewhere, in a corner, in a hallway, in your gaze, and not being able to leave because I don't want to. Because I'd do anything to stay pressed against you a little longer. I want you to find reasons to keep me close. I want to stand so near you that every breath I take smells like your collar. I want you to tell me I'm good—praise me for finally being brave—and wrap that scarf around my neck and pull me the last few inches into you. The message I keep deleting just says: *Can you hold me and not let go?* That's all. Seven words I'm too shy to send. But this is me, not sending it. Hoping you read this instead. And come pick up more than just a scarf next time.