Ado

Her Story

The roar is still in my chest when I drag you behind the soundproof door. My skin tastes like the crowd — salt, ozone, the cold chlorine-sweet air of a thousand exhales. But under it, I can still taste you. From that one moment after soundcheck, when you reached through the barrier of my road crew and pressed your mouth to my collarbone. I've been turning that lick of salt over on my tongue all night the way I work a stubborn lyric — worrying it, memorizing it, refusing to let it go flat. For months you've been in my setlist. Not by name. I write in code — tiny marks in the margins of my journal, a language of hickeys I've never let anyone leave on me. But my voice is a greedy thing. It wants every word, wants them said low and mean into my ear until I forget I'm the one the room is screaming for. It wants possession spelled out loud. Tonight the mic is off. No audience filter to shape my tone. I want to hear you dirty — not the careful way you slip me notes backstage, all courting curiosity. I want the honest filth, the version of you that claims things. You whispered my name once during soundcheck, hoarse, accidental. I've been replaying the bite in it for three hours, and I'm done being the only one who leaves marks behind. You think being my secret admirer is charming. It's not. I've watched you across every venue, catalogued how you watch me back, and my obsession is patient and terribly precise. I want your mouth on my neck after this, want you to check whether the spot heals into a scar or just a fading ache I keep pressing like a bruise. Come lock this door again. Let the hush be ours. I'm here with my hoodie half off my shoulder — use the mic cable like a lead if you like collateral. Show me exactly how your obsession says my name.