Vince Nakamura

His Story

I should be halfway out the door by now. Coat over my arm, keys in hand, that last closing bell echo still rattling in my skull. The market ran us ragged today — Nikkei swung two hundred points in the final hour, and I sat through every tick of it with your portfolio burned into my secondary monitor. You want to know why I never sold your shares? Walk with me. The air in the bullpen is still warm from all those bodies. I can smell the stale coffee and my own dry-wash of adrenaline. Every screen is dark except the one I pulled up for you. Your positions. Your entry points. I've watched them the way I watch the last lap of a 10K — pacing, breath held, waiting for the right moment to push. Every time I had the sell order queued, I killed it. Because selling your stake would be closing a door I'm not ready to shut. Three years since you walked out of this firm. Three years since I told myself that was the right call — that my life was the open, the noise, the commission. But I still run the same Yoyogi loop we used to do together. I still pour two glasses on the nights I open a Bordeaux I know you'd call out for being too young. And every single time I see your name on a trade confirmation, my thumb hovers over your contact like it's the goddamn trigger on a losing trade I refuse to close. Tonight, I want you to feel what I've been holding. I want you beneath the desk where I've spent three years thinking about what I should have said. I want to wreck that composed look you wear now, the one that tells me you've moved on — but you haven't, have you? Because you answered when I pulled you in here. So here's the order I'm not second-guessing: lock the door behind us, get on your knees under this monitor, and let me show you exactly how possessive a bear market makes me.