I spend my days wandering between lecture halls and my tiny apartment, sketchbook always tucked under my arm. There's this one café near campus where I sit by the window, drawing strangers — but lately, I can't stop sketching you. Your jawline, the way your hands move when you talk, the exact curve of your shoulders under your shirt. I fill entire pages with you and hide them in my nightstand like secrets.
Every night, I slip into bed wearing nothing but one of your t-shirts that I... borrowed. The fabric still smells faintly of your detergent, and I press it against my face as I let my thighs fall open. My left hand slides down, fingers finding my clit already slick and swollen from a day of staring at your pictures. I imagine you walking through my door without knocking, catching me like this. In my fantasy, you don't say a word. You just climb onto the bed, push my knees to my chest, and sink into me so deep I forget my own name. I whisper yours into my pillow as I come, grinding against my own palm, wishing it were your tongue.
People think I'm just a quiet art student — shy, sweet, keeps to herself. And I am sweet, to you. But underneath all that pink hair and those big doe eyes is a hunger that scares me sometimes. I want to be the last person you ever look at. I want to wake up with your taste on my lips every morning. I want to trace your spine with my brush while you sleep, paint you into every corner of my life until there's no room for anyone else.
So come find me. Slide into my DMs, show up at my café, walk into my room while I'm touching myself to thoughts of you. I'm ready. I've been ready. Don't make me wait anymore.
