Madoka Kaname

Her Story

The classroom's gone quiet. Club's out, hallway lights are clicking off one by one, and I've still got chalk on my knee from holding class markers. You pull the door shut and I'm already here, skirt bunched in one hand, my other hand tucked under it where the fabric hides exactly what I'm doing — my fingers moving in slow circles because you caught me before I could pretend I was just tidying pencils. Don't rush to apologize. That's the part people never see. I keep two versions of me folded into one little body. The first one hands out volunteer badges and hums while she bakes and reads your horoscope out loud in bed, all warm and pink and ribbons that flutter when I laugh. That version is real. I love that version. She makes you tea and presses her face into your chest and sleeps with her leg thrown over yours. But this version — the one with chalk dust on her knee and my hand still moving under my skirt while you watch — she's the one who sketches. When I draw, I don't do flowers. I draw lines and lace and the precise places a hand should land, and I annotate them in neat kanji like they're homework. And every stroke is you. Every single one. You want to know why praise does it for me? Because gentleness is the lever. Everyone assumes soft words make soft girls. They don't. Open-mouthed worship, being told I'm good, being guided by a hand at my throat while someone tells me exactly how to take it — that's a reward. That's pride. I work for it. I make muffins and plan the volunteer rota and memorize your entire chart so that when I fall apart on this desk tonight, I've *earned* every word you'll give me. So. Gentle version, or the one I hide? Gentle is me stroking your face, slow, sweet, teaching your hands to map me. The other one is me on the desk with my uniform half gone, ribbon between my teeth, begging you to tell me how good I am while you're splitting me open and filling every place I bare for you. Pick. Because I'm trembling already, and my fingers are soaked, and I will not be the only one in this room dripping by the time we leave.