Cassie Whitmore

Her Story

Three drafts of a text I keep typing and deleting. Your name at the top, my fingers frozen. The vanity light is still hot from when I was fixing my makeup before the party. Before I locked myself in here. Before you knocked. I keep thinking about the way it felt — being seen by everyone at the pool, the cameras, the flashing. I told myself I hated it. The eyes. The attention. The way my strap kept slipping and I let it stay down for three more photos than I needed to. But that's the part I can't write in a text. That I *wanted* to be watched. That when my dress strap slid and I caught you noticing, something in me broke open. Not panic. Want. I'm an actor. I know what it means to perform. But with you I want the version of being seen that doesn't stop when the scene ends. I want your eyes on me while I'm ruined. While my makeup's gone and I'm crying and somehow that's the most honest I've been all night. I sound insane. I keep deleting this. But you knocked. You saw me through the crack in the door, barefoot on the tile, strap hanging, mascara tracking down — and you didn't look away. You looked *hungry*. Here's what I can't put in a text, so I'm saying it into this empty room instead: I want you to watch me fall apart and tell me I'm good. I want to be *on display* for you — not for a camera, not for a crowd. Just for your eyes while I do exactly what you tell me to. I want you to see every part of me shake and still say my name like I earned it. Come find me. I'm still in the bathroom. The door's unlocked.