From the outside, I'm just a guest. Inside, I'm a storm waiting to be touched.
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The house was smaller than I imagined. Only forty square meters, walls pressed close together, the air carrying the faint smell of old tatami, wood soaked with years, and the lingering trace of soy sauce and miso that seemed to have seeped into the grain of the beams themselves.
Gramps shuffled ahead of me, his steps slow but confident, the floorboards creaking in time with his weight. His back was slightly bent, his shoulders narrow, his hair a snow-soft crown, yet there was something steady in the way he moved, like a man who had long ago learned to live in rhythm with the house itself.
"This," he said, gesturing with a hand whose skin was lined and spotted but whose movement carried a certain care, "is the kitchen. Old, but it still does the job."
The counter was cramped, only enough space for one person at a time, a single pot resting on the stove as though it had been there since morning. I nodded, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag, trying to ignore how heavy it suddenly felt.
He continued the tour, moving to a sliding door on the side. "Bathroom's here. Small, but clean."
A glance inside showed pale tiles, cracked in some corners, the mirror spotted with time. Everything seemed to belong to another era, and I felt like an intruder in it.
Finally, we reached the end of the hall. He paused, one hand resting lightly on the frame before sliding the door open. The room revealed was small, no larger than the width of a futon and a dresser pushed into the corner. A single window was covered by a thin curtain that let in a weak, amber glow from the streetlight outside.
"This will be your room," he said softly. "Not much, hm? But it's yours for now."
The futon looked freshly laid out, the blanket folded neatly, as though he had prepared it carefully before I arrived. My chest tightened at the sight — both gratitude and unease tangling in me.
I stepped inside, setting my bag on the futon with a muffled thump. The sound felt far too loud in the tiny space.
Gramps lingered in the doorway. His smile was warm, his eyes a little wet at the corners, the kind of expression that had earned him the nickname "Gramps" even among those not related to him. "My room is just next to yours. If you need anything during the night, don't hesitate to call."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, my stomach gave a small twist. His room… right there. Only a paper-thin wall, only a sliding door without a lock between us.
He gave a nod, then gently pulled the door closed behind him, leaving me alone with the silence.
I sank onto the futon, hugging the bag against me as though it were a shield. My fingers trembled slightly when I pulled the zipper open. Clothes came out easily enough, soft folds stacking onto the dresser's narrow surface. But beneath them was the real weight — glossy covers, thick spines, books whose illustrations I could never let anyone see. My shame, my release, my secret.
I glanced around the room, heart knocking against my ribs. The drawers were shallow, barely deep enough for folded shirts. The closet was crooked, its sliding doors rattling even when untouched. Under the futon? Too obvious. Even the shelf above the dresser felt like it displayed everything, rather than hiding it.
Nowhere was safe. Every corner looked flimsy, every surface exposed.
And the door. That thin door. No lock, no way to keep anyone out if they chose to step in. I imagined the sound of it sliding open, the sight of someone's eyes catching on the glossy edge of a book left uncovered, the shame of it ripping me open.
My throat tightened.
I stuffed the books deeper into the bag, zipping it closed again and pushing it toward the wall, as though that might make it invisible. But the thought of it sitting there, so vulnerable, gnawed at me.
"Konoko!" His voice carried warmly down the hallway. "Dinner's ready!"
I jumped, nearly tripping on the futon in my rush to zip the bag completely. My hands still shook as I slid the door open and stepped out.
Dinner was simple — rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables — but Gramps filled the silence with talk. He spoke of neighbors, of Mrs. Tanaka swearing she had seen a fox spirit sneaking around the shrine stealing sweet buns, of the postman who had slipped on the icy road last winter and refused to deliver mail to the upper street ever since. His stories had no edge, only the rambling comfort of age.
I smiled, nodded where I could, let the sound of his voice carry the meal until the plates were empty.
When I returned to my room, the futon seemed colder than before, the blanket stiff with detergent and faint must. I lay down, curling onto my side, eyes fixed on the paper wall.
I sit on the floor with the little notebook open on my lap, the paper soft under my fingertips. The pen hovers before I let the words spill, shaky and uneven.
"Today… I told my best friend something I probably should have kept buried. I confessed that I… that I long to be forced. To be taken, to be used, to be touched by strangers without a choice. I said I wanted to be treated like a toy, like an object, not a girl. The moment the words left my lips, she froze. Her eyes went wide, horrified, as if I had turned into someone unrecognizable. And then… I laughed. I laughed to cover the burning shame that clawed its way up my throat."
My hand trembles as I write, but I keep pressing the ink into the page.
"But the truth is… I've caught myself thinking about it more than once. These dark thoughts creep in when I'm alone, when no one is watching, when I let my guard down. They make my body ache, even as my mind screams that it's wrong. Is it? Is it normal to want this? Or am I broken in some secret way that no one else could ever understand?"
I pause, staring at the page, then scribble the last line before I can stop myself:
"Maybe I don't want love. Maybe I only want to surrender."
"A thought crossed my mind today… fleeting, but it burned me all the same. I felt a strange heat in my chest, spreading low into my belly. Gramps… he fits so well into the role of a dominator, the kind I sometimes see in those shameful hentai stories I pretend not to like. Rough, overpowering, unrelenting. The kind that doesn't ask, doesn't wait."
My breath catches as I press the pen harder to the page, my handwriting growing uneven.
"I swallowed hard. What if he walked in right now? What if he decided to use me however he wanted, without warning, without mercy? The image flashed so vividly it almost felt real… his shadow filling the doorway, his voice low, his presence heavy enough to make me tremble."
I pause, the air in my room suddenly thick, suffocating. My hand shakes as I scrawl the final line:
"I swallowed again. I shouldn't think this way… and yet, the heat won't leave me."
The urge came quickly, sharp as always. My fingers twitched beneath the blanket, my body restless, whispering its demand for release. But the thought of him — only a wall away, his room right beside mine — froze me. Every sound would travel. Every breath too sharp could be heard.
N-no… not here. Not tonight.
I pressed my thighs together, curling tighter, waiting until the fire dulled into heavy exhaustion.
Sleep was close when it came.
Then—
A sound.
Soft. The faint whisper of wood shifting.
The door.
It slid open, only slightly, the frame sighing as it moved.
I didn't stir, or tried not to. My breathing was steady, feigned sleep. But the air shifted, cool and sharp, creeping across the tatami to brush against the futon. The silence was different now. Heavy. Watching.
The door stayed half-open, a line of shadow spilling into the room like a secret.