Monk29:
I’m listening.
SilverDust:
Not me. Just a girl.
Let’s call her… M.
And a man. Older. Call him A.
Monk29:
…Go on.
SilverDust:
She’s in his room. It’s not supposed to be hers. But the scent on the pillow feels like safety — and something more dangerous beneath. She’s wearing his shirt. It wasn’t planned. But when she found it folded on the chair, it called her fingers.
He walks in. Stops. The hallway light hits her just enough to show skin, curve, stillness.
They don’t speak. But he doesn’t leave.
Monk29:
I feel like I know this story.
SilverDust:
He pretends to reach for something — a charger, maybe. She watches him in the mirror. Watches the muscles in his back tense, watches how slowly he breathes.
She says nothing. But the air thickens. The kind of silence that makes skin ache.
And just before he leaves, she asks:
“Is it wrong that I wanted you to come in?”
Monk29:
…
SilverDust:
He doesn’t answer. But the door stays open.
The cursor blinked. Ankit hadn’t responded.
Then finally:
Monk29:
You terrify me.
SilverDust:
That’s the second time you’ve said that.
Monk29:
Because it’s still true.
You use words like skin. Like silk.
SilverDust:
Maybe that’s all I’ve ever wanted — to be touched by attention, not hands.
Monk29:
And what if I said… A steps closer this time?
SilverDust:
Then I’d ask if he’s thought about that moment since the day it happened.
Monk29:
Every week.
Some days more than others.
Some nights… constantly.
A pause.
SilverDust:
I didn’t expect you to say that.
Monk29:
I didn’t expect you to ask.
SilverDust:
Would you like me to finish the story?
Monk29:
Only if you want to ruin me properly.
Undone – Part 24: The Girl Had Him
[Chatroom – Day 36 | 12:03 AM]
SilverDust:
So… shall I finish what I started?
Monk29:
I shouldn’t want you to.
But all I can do is wait for the next line.
SilverDust:
The girl doesn’t stop him from leaving.
But she moves.
She sits up on his bed, knees drawn beneath his shirt. Her skin, still warm from the shower, glows faintly in the soft light from the hallway.
And then she says — very softly — “A… I know what I’m doing.”
Monk29:
Does she?
SilverDust:
Oh, she does. She’s known for a while.
She waits until he turns just enough to see her in the mirror. Her hand lifts — slowly — brushing her thigh beneath the shirt, almost shy. Not performance. Just… awareness.
And then — she whispers:
“Do you want to touch where I’m touching?”
Ankit’s pulse throbbed against his wrist. He typed… then erased. Typed again. Stopped.
SilverDust:
Say it.
Say yes.
Monk29:
Yes.
God, yes.
SilverDust:
He steps in. The door clicks shut behind him.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t even move closer.
He watches. As she draws the hem of the shirt higher — enough to tease, not enough to bare. Her inner thighs part slightly. Just space. Enough for tension to sit between them like breath.
And then — her eyes lift. Calm. Knowing. No shame.
“I’ve imagined your hands there. Want to see how close I got?”
Monk29:
I can’t breathe.
SilverDust:
She leans back. Fingers dip beneath the fabric — not enough to show, just to suggest. Her breath catches, and she exhales his name.
(Not A. Not a symbol. Him.)