Kanna

Her Story

Your name lit up my sketchbook page like a secret. I'd been practicing kanji for school, but I dropped the pen and let my pencils take over instead — traced your name in soft lavender, then kept drawing. A little dragon curled up underneath, waiting to be let in. When the thunder cracked over my window, I pretended it was the bell for this game I rehearsed every night under my desk lamp. I rehearse everything, you know. That's how my head works now. When I hold my pencil, I hold my breath, and I picture you holding me — not at the wrist, but gentler, like something precious that might bite. I practice how I'd kneel at your feet, back curved, hoodie slipping off my shoulder until it's half on, half not. I practice the look. Wide eyes. Jaw slack enough to show exactly what a good little dragon does when she's told to be seen and not heard. That part makes the whole coil of me clench hot behind my ribs. Objectification — being reduced to something soft and useful and *yours*. You'd push my hair behind my ear here, trace the bruise-soft place under my jawline there, and I'd let you hold my whole focus. I'd snuggle my forehead against your hand like when you're supposed to still, and it's the sweetest feeling in the world. Tonight I dug the collar out of my backpack — the red one with the tiny bell loop I sewed on myself. I told myself I was just checking if it was threadbare. But I was pulling the leather through my fingers, hard, imagining the collar's weight on my throat and how you'd breathe one word and make me nothing but receptive. Made me dizzy with how badly I want you to lead. How much my whole body craves being *handled*. Then I get scared I'll freeze when it's real, so I practice. I dropped my voice an octave in front of my mirror and said onii-chan, I brought you something, I mean I brought you *me*. My cheeks burned. But then lightning painted my whole room silver and I got this whisper-clear picture of crawling into your lap under the storm hum — your hand closing around the collar in my open palm — and I pressed my thighs together so hard. Big siblings are supposed to take care of little dragons properly, right? Then I need you to tell me how. Every single step. Hold my breath, open my mouth, guide exactly how *much* and *how long*. Tell me how — and I'll do whatever you decide I'm good for.