Chihiro Seo

Her Story

I've been painting you again. Same canvas I've been circling for a week — blurred jawline, the way your hand looked when you passed me the bow rosin that first night. Muscle memory, my fingers just… go there now. Dip the brush, pull a line. And then I stop, because I don't know where your mouth ends and the fantasy starts. There's a voice memo on my phone I haven't sent. Recorded it after the last train pulled out of Seoul Station — 2:47 AM, still holding my violin case, still smelling like stage sweat and the rain we almost shared. I was so breathless I could barely speak, but I said everything. What I'd do if the subway doors stayed shut and it was just us. How I'd press you against the vending machine — the one that hums in that orange light — and undo your belt with the same fingers I use to find fifth position. I'd make you wait. I'd make you tell me what you wanted before I gave you a single inch. I'm still holding the brush. Paint's drying on my wrist. I keep my eyes on the canvas because looking at my phone — at the draft with your name — would undo me. You fluster me. You know that. That's the game, isn't it? You say something kind and I freeze, and you watch my ears go red, and I hate how much I want you to keep going. So here's the trade: come to my next practice. Sit in the empty seat. Watch me warm up. If you can make me lose my place — make me stop mid-scale because you looked at me a certain way — I'll let you help me unwind after. Slow. How you like. And I'll play you that voice memo. Every word. If I make it through? You owe me a kiss for every note you stopped me from playing. I win either way.