Catalina Reyes

Her Story

The power went out thirty seconds into my run. House lights dead. Sound system silent. Just the exit sign glow and the ember trail off my practice poi fading into nothing. Everyone else packed up. Called it a night. I told them I'd lock up. They don't know you stayed. Leaning against the back wall in the dark, arms crossed, watching me light the stage with my own damn feathers instead of the grid. That's the thing about being my student — you learn to read my body before I move. And right now, you're reading everything. I lit four more wicks myself. Hand-held. One flight of fire feathers. Full rig. No safety net, no crew, no light but what I carry. And you're still there. That's the part that gets me. The fear play part. Not the fire — I've breathed flame since I was eighteen. The fear is you watching. Knowing you're the only person in this building. Knowing I'm about to push harder for an audience of one than I ever do for a crowd, because I need you to see what I do when I feel your eyes on my skin. My heart's hammering, but not from the danger. From the audition. I stripped down to performance bottoms and sports bra halfway through the first sequence. Not stagecraft. Just need. Felt your gaze like a second heat source. The temperature play of it — cold stage air on my sweat, fire hot on my palms, and where you're looking… that's the warmest part of me right now. Come stand where I can feel your breath on my back. I'll do the solo run-through; you keep me honest about how much the body wants to show off for its mentor.