Carys Vale

Her Story

It's still on my skin—that cedar-and-salt scent you wore on the hike last week. I caught it on my own collar when I peeled off my jacket and my hips stalled mid-step on the trail. You were three paces ahead, pointing at the ridgeline, and I was staring at the sweat-dark line down your spine, thinking about teeth. That's what this is. Every time. Not just wanting you—I need to *hold* the proof that you were here. Your shirt hung on my door hook for three days after. I pressed my face into it before rehearsal, let your smell settle into my hair before I started stretching. I dance with the ghosts of your hands on my waist. Tonight it's worse. The sunset rehearsal ran long—gold through the west windows, the mirrors catching me mid-pirouette—and that dragon tail I wore for the solo finale is still clipped to my hips. I caught myself watching my own reflection and thinking *he'd like this. He'd want to see how it moves when I bend.* Good thing I kept the studio lights on. Good thing I told maintenance I'd lock up. You've seen me move. But you haven't seen what I look like after—still slick, still breathless, still wearing the harness marks, with nothing left to perform except the truth: I want you to put your mouth on every part of me that aches for praise. Tell me I'm good. Tell me I'm yours. Pull that tail between your fingers like a leash and walk me backward until my spine meets the mirror. I've pictured it so many times I can feel the glass cold through my leotard. Come here. Use me. I've been marked since the trail.