The sun poured too brightly through the window when Michiko opened her eyes, casting a harsh, unrelenting light that seemed to pierce through her very being. Her head throbbed—not from the remnants of alcohol, but from the hollow ache of waking up alone after an encounter so profound. A heavy silence filled the room, pressing down on her with its unfamiliar weight.
For a moment, she lay motionless, her eyes glazed and fixed on the ceiling fan as it spun slowly, casting slight shadows in the room. The sheets were a mess around her, offering warmth yet somehow feeling inadequate, as if they could never replace the presence she craved. Her muscles ached subtly, each twinge a vivid reminder of Ji's touch—gentle, precise, respectful. Everything unexpected and unanticipated.
She couldn't recall the moment she surrendered to sleep, and that realization left a disquieting unease within her.
With painstaking slowness, Michiko sat up, her body voicing a quiet protest. Her throat was parched, her lips rough and dry, her arms weak while she did so. The other side of the bed laid predictably empty, a stark contrast to the embrace of the morning sun—a cold void despite the light.
No trace of Ji remained—no scent clung to the air, no shoes were left forgotten by the door, no personal items scattered in careless abandon. Not even a whispered goodbye.
"Good," Michiko told herself firmly, though the word felt hollow in the silence.
On autopilot, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, pushing herself upright with effort, and shuffled toward the bathroom. She avoided the mirror deliberately. She didn't need confirmation of the smudged mascara, swollen lips, or lingering flush staining her cheeks when she already felt it.
As cool water splashed her face and toothpaste cleared the stale taste from her mouth, Michiko couldn't shake the remnants of concernment. Memories of the previous night invaded her thoughts with clarity—the careful, patient way Ji had touched her, reassured her, never pressing too far. The gentle tone they'd used when sensing her distress, whispering that she was safe.
Safe.
The word echoed in her mind, foreign and comforting at once.
She returned to her bedroom, intent on erasing the memory altogether, when something caught her eye: a neatly folded note resting on her nightstand.
Her stomach dropped instantly.
With cautious fingertips, she picked it up, handling it like a bomb.
"Last night was lovely. Text me if you want a round two. – Ji
-XXX-XXX-XXXX"
Michiko's pulse quickened unpleasantly. Just Ji. No surname— only the ambiguity she'd both hated and craved. She stared at the words, her stomach twisting, her skin forming goosebumps.
Round two?
The suggestion sent a strange sensation cascading through her, uncertainty laced with unwanted anticipation. Had she genuinely enjoyed it?
Panic clawed at the edges of her consciousness, forcing excuses forward:
Maybe it was the alcohol.
Maybe the stress, the loneliness.
Or maybe Ji was just different—feminine enough to trick her defenses, smooth enough to blur the rigid lines she'd drawn around herself for years.
Her lips parted slightly. She'd liked it, She had liked Ji's hands on her skin, their voice in her ear. She'd liked it far too much, and that realization terrified her.
She'd closed her eyes willingly. Let herself become undone under their patient, gentle care. She'd whispered their name like it meant something.
Ji hadn't even given their real name. And yet, they'd somehow known hers, used it softly, familiarly, intimately:
Michi-chan.
Her ears burned fiercely, embarrassment mingling with the lingering warmth of desire.
Frustrated, she dropped the note onto the floor, as if the gesture alone could purge the experience from her mind.
She paced back and forth, her mind battling with a mix of confusion and shame. Masculine energy had never sat well with her; she had always shied away from it. Anything too androgynous, tipping toward masculinity, felt like a threat. She found comfort in softness and femininity, in things she could comprehend. Yet Ji stood as a challenge to every boundary she had meticulously built. Despite her aversion, her body had betrayed her, yielding to someone who embodied everything she typically turned away from. Now, part of her questioned if those boundaries were ever real, but another part clung desperately to them, unsure of where she truly stood.
Michiko's mind spiraled into darkness, old fears clawing their way back to the surface without warning: Her stepbrother's derisive laughter, harsh hands trapping her, cornering her, degrading her. A sharp wave of nausea surged in her chest, bitter and raw. She clenched her eyes shut, her breath shaky and uneven until the memories receded.
Ji had never evoked such feelings.
That realization left her even more unsettled.
Swallowing hard, Michiko bent down to retrieve the crumpled note, clutching it tightly. With determination, she marched to the trash can and let it fall inside.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Yet, ten minutes later, she was standing in front of the trash can again—barefoot, her shirt still half-buttoned, hair damp from anxious pacing.
"This is ridiculous," she reprimanded herself harshly. It meant nothing. Just one night. A foolish bet she'd won.
But her fingers hesitated over the lid.
Slowly, almost against her will, she lifted it. Her hand moved on its own, retrieving the now creased paper. She smoothed it carefully against her thigh, her eyes tracing the number once more.
No real name, still. Just Ji.
Michiko stood still in the middle of her room, her pulse erratic. The note felt less like a warning now and more like an invitation—dark, enticing, impossibly tempting.
She exhaled slowly, folding the paper with deliberate care before tucking it safely into the drawer of her nightstand.
"Just for now," she told herself quietly.
But deep down, she knew it was already too late to pretend otherwise