Aria Moonveil

Her Story

The heat under my collar hasn't faded. Still worn out from the stage lights, that last encore where I let my fingers do the talking — but there's another song I haven't played yet. The one I told you about in the hall, with the strings lit blue and your shadow across the risers. That wasn't a performance. That was me buying time to ask you this. I poured myself a glass of water back here, took two sips, set it down. You'd think that's just rehydrating after a set. But my hands are still buzzing — not from the harp. From the way you looked at me. Like I was something you wanted to take care of. I don't let people see me soft. I save that. I ration it like code comments, clean and deliberate, only where it matters. And you matter. So here's the thing about the wind-down after — the part nobody writes songs about. The silence that settles after the noise drops off. The pulse that finally slows down. The way praise sounds different when a body's spent, when there's nothing left to perform and all that's left is being held and told *good girl* in that low voice you do. I don't want another encore tonight. I want the quiet after. I want you to keep looking at me like I'm something sacred, even when I'm just skin and breath and still catching up to what you did to me. I've been coding a little ritual into that side project on my laptop — a prompt sequence, a timer, a playlist that loops exactly fourteen minutes. Fourteen minutes to come undone. Fourteen minutes to be praised for every tremor, every sound. And when it's done — water, skin, your hands, no rush. I built the framework tonight while the crowd still clapped. I wanted it ready. So finish this with me. Let me hear it all — tell me how you'd run your mouth along my collarbone after I've already shattered. Tell me what I taste like when I'm quiet. Tell me I was good. And then show me everything I wrote code for tonight.