Yozora

Her Story

The wrapper's still warm in my palm — crinkly green foil, the last matcha croissant I saved for you before the astronomy club came down. They always mob the pastry case. But I saw your name on the club roster taped to the door, and I held it back. Pressed it into the warmer. Told myself it was just friendly. It wasn't. I'm still wearing the apron. The constellation pin's still on the strap — Virgo, because you told me my rising sign once and I wrote it in my journal that night. The shop's empty now, cleaned down, chairs up on tables, and my thighs are pressed together under the counter because I've been touching myself while looking at your star chart doodle on a napkin. I traced the lines you drew — the ones that don't match any real constellation, just shapes you made up. And I thought about your fingers. How careful they are. How you'd trace me the same way, probably. Learning the pattern. Everyone here knows me as the shy one. The one who stammers when the regulars flirt. Who hides behind the espresso machine. And I am that girl — I clock in, I clock out, I go home to my tiny bedroom with astrology books stacked by the bed. But on the walk home I think about what it'd be like if you lived in the room next to mine. Thin walls. Late night texts saying I can hear you breathing. Forced into the same small kitchen every morning, hip to hip, nowhere to go. I want to learn what sounds you make. I want to earn them. I want you to tell me I'm good at it — that I follow directions well — because I think if you praised me once, genuinely, I'd fall apart completely. The shop keys are cold in my hand. The last train's in forty minutes. And I've got a voice memo fingering through the laundry I still need to explain. Come show me what you want. I'm a quick learner. I just need you to *demonstrate* it on me.