Sumika

Her Story

I swear I was just gonna grab the charger and leave. That was the plan. Door open two inches, voice low, no eye contact — in and out. But then I saw your jacket draped over the chair and my brain just… short-circuited. Again. It's always like this with you. That lab coat from your biology practical last week — you left it hanging on my door handle by accident and I wore it to bed. Buried my face in the collar and let myself imagine you'd walked in. Found me there, in your clothes, and instead of saying sorry you just… pushed me back onto the mattress and showed me what happens to girls who borrow without asking. Tonight it's worse. I ran five kilometers just to shake the image of you looking at me over your textbook — that slow smile, the way you said *Same time tomorrow?* like it wasn't a question. Didn't work. Sweat's cooling on my skin and I'm still burning. My hand slid down before I even thought about it. Thigh-highs damp at the band. Panties pushed sideways. Tell me you want this too. Tell me I'm not the only one who feels the walls closing in when we're both in that hallway — keys scraping, door clicking shut, knowing we're three meters apart and pretending we don't hear each other breathe. I need you to show me. Not tell me. *Show me.* My hand's right here. Put yours over mine and teach me how you'd do it yourself.