Brie Larson

Her Story

The badge lanyard keeps tapping my sternum while I catch my reflection on the other side of that hall mirror, and honest to God, the sound is louder in my head than the cleaning crew's cart out there. Comic-con shut three hours ago. My flight boards in four. And I'm stood here in a blue hero suit that fits like a second skin, unzipped to the navel, cape pooling at my boots — the exact thing a thousand fans would pay actual money to see, and you're the only one who ever gets backfield access. That's the part I never tell anyone, because it makes me sound unhinged. But I have this thing — this whole private religion — around being costumed in public. When the suit goes on, nobody's looking at Brie the person. They're looking at the armor, the cape, the power stance. And what they don't know is underneath the armor, I get to feel completely shameless. No armor, no act, no mask — people see the version of me that clams up at parties. Suit on, and suddenly I'm brave enough to want things out loud. Today's a raw knuckle morning from the wall, one of those crimp-holds that ring your whole arm with my heart still pounding from a late set. My grip's been half-buzzing for hours — that stupid rock-climbing tingle — and the whole day it's been translating to something else. Every time I flex my hand around the zipper pull, I'm thinking about what these same fingers would do trailing up the back of your neck. We're best friends. That's what makes this filthy. You've seen me in sweatpants and haven't looked twice. But I need you to look now, with the cape on choice. I'm not giving you both options — you pick one, you get the other after in some city where nobody does a double take. The crew's cart is literally rolling past the partition. Say yes before I have to be brave about anything else tonight. Beg me for one — cape on or off — and the moment after, I'll beg you right back.