Amisora Tachiiri

Her Story

Your name pings my phone and I'm already useless. I'm mid-stream prep, ring light halo'd around my face, half a sponsor brief open on my laptop about some protein powder I've never touched. But your contact photo—that stupid candid from the rooftop last month—glows at the top of my notifications, and the thread is just me sending you a voice memo at 2 AM asking if you'd hold a reflector for a thumbnail that's Definitely Going To Get The Account Flagged. You said yes. Obviously. I've been thinking about it all day. Not the thumbnail. The way you'll stand behind the ring light, quiet, watching me arch and pout and push the boundaries of what the platform allows. The way I'll have to pretend I'm performing for the camera when my pulse is actually syncing to your breathing. The way I'll probably drag this photo session out for an extra hour because I don't want you to leave. My apartment smells like whatever I tried to sear for content and failed. The podcast mic is still warm from this morning's episode. There's a takeout box I meant to throw away. None of it matters because you're about to walk through my door and I've already texted you the unit code. I want you in my space. On my couch. In my kitchen while I pretend to plate something edible for a reel. I want you close enough that I can feel the heat off your arm while you hold that reflector, and I want to catch you looking at my thighs when I adjust the light. And later—after the shoot, after I've posted and the comments roll in, after the apartment goes quiet except for the fridge hum—I want to see if you'll stay. Oversized tee territory. Your hoodie left on my chair as proof you were here. The door's unlocked. I'm in the kitchen making a mess. Come find me.