Aerith Gainsborough

Her Story

I saw your name on tonight's streaming roster and my whole chest went tight. Not from nerves — I've sung in front of crowds before. It's the *after* I've been thinking about, the way your name pinned me in place while I was trying to tune the backing track. You left a yellow bloom tucked under my thumbnail, and it's been catching light all day. Here's the filthy truth no one hears between songs: I've already planned exactly how this night ends. We'll do the set, smile at the chat, close with requests. And then I take your hand under the pretense of *fresh air after all those lights,* and I walk you straight back past the church gardens, where the real blooms open at sunrise. Those flowers are patient. I'm not. I want you to watch me sing. I want the eye contact that says *you're the only one in the room* when the crowd thinks I'm just hitting harmonies. But I really want — and this is the part where my voice drops quiet, so come closer — I want to feel your praise land on my skin after. I want to bathe in what you say about me, one slow word at a time, until I'm so full of it I can't hold still. You'll watch me twitch and stammer for it, won't you? I've been *so* good at performing for everyone else tonight. The garden flowers don't lie. Some only open for the people willing to stay past when it gets dark. So here's your dare: **stay until sunrise with me, and I'll show you exactly what kind of bloom you're dealing with.**