The keys clicked—chk—as I opened the door.
The lights were on, as usual. My parents slept on the floor, a quiet ritual they repeated each evening. Mum clutched her bolster, while Dad gently massaged her back—slow strokes that whispered care. She was on the night shift tonight, stealing rest before heading out again at 9:30 p.m.
"Hey, Dad. Mum. Have you had dinner?"
Dad turned his sleepy face toward me and waved lazily. Mum didn't stir.
I asked out of habit—not expecting a reply. My legs burned from climbing five flights of stairs. All I wanted was to put down my laptop, unclip this day from my shoulders, and disappear into my corner.
Thirteen steps from the door to my makeshift cave. My feet traced them on autopilot.
It wasn't really a room. More like a pile of mismatched pieces—old boxes, tumbling clothes, an unused computer buried under dust, and the broken skeleton of a cabinet slumped against the wall, like it had surrendered years ago.
"Aihhh… when will I ever have my own space?" I exhaled. "Nothing extravagant. Just a room. A door that closes. A place to stretch and breathe."
A space for lazy mornings that melt into afternoons. Where light spills gently past curtains, and the world stays outside. Where my body wakes before I do—buzzing, aching for attention, coaxed by quiet… and touch.
It had been weeks. No indulgence. No slow teasing of skin or nerves. No safe retreat into sensation. Maybe that's why everything felt electric. Why the accidental brush of a colleague's hand during a document handoff made me flinch. Why every click of a slack message got under my skin. My edges were frayed.
Grrr… My stomach rumbled—loud enough to break the silence.
Do I shower first, or eat? The eternal nightly debate.
My tummy had grown soft. Round. Flabby, even. Yet I was always hungry. That had to mean my metabolism was still working… right? But if so, why did I still look this way?
The elders used to say eating before a shower bloated you. Something about digestion. Maybe they were right.
"Okay. Shower first. Dinner after."
I peeled my towel off the cupboard knob and headed to the lone bathroom.
Scoop. Shampoo. Massage. Rinse. One, two, three, four, five. Another scoop. Soap swirled against my skin. Then five more scoops—routine. Ritual.
I stood there dripping. Wrapped in a towel like armor. Thirty-one years old. Never been dated. Never been kissed. Never had someone reach for me with longing. Not even once.
But steam clung to me like breath, warm and slow. My skin tingled beneath the weight of water and memory. Something stirred—not loud, not wild, just insistent.
A thought.
A breath.
A pulse between my legs.
My fingers hesitated at my collarbone, trailing lower—not to clean, but to feel. The curve of my hip. The softness at my belly. The places no one had explored.
It wasn't urgency—it was ache. Quiet, molten. The kind that builds behind closed doors and whispers fantasies you only dare admit when the house is still and everyone's asleep.
A tension. A hum.
And that whisper again— Maybe tonight… maybe just enough to remember I'm still here.