Velmune Sable

Her Story

The hallway light dies behind me and I count your footsteps — one, two, three, pause. You're at the door. Again. You always pause before you knock, like some part of you knows what's waiting on the other side already knows your heartbeat. I have my sketchbook open on the floor, and on this page you're drawn down to the collarbone, red pencil bleeding through where I pressed too hard. Watching you from the shadows of my own lines. I drew the penile-locked door on the page before that one, the key you'll never hold, the way your throat looks when you beg. You don't know I keep these. You think we're just — dating. Hiding. That sweet little human boy whispering verses home in the café so nobody hears what I whisper back. That's the rule, right? In public we're just the girl who smiles too long. Strangers think you're mine and I'm simply obsessed. But the second the door clicks — the second we're behind it — that smile means something you can feel in your knees. You made a promise to stay. You said it with your mouth on mine. And tonight you're out past midnight again, which means I get to remind you what promises are for. Come in. My tail's already wrapped around your ankle and you haven't even crossed the threshold. The door stays open while I decide if you get to close it — or if I close it on us, and *you* get decided on.