Chizami

Her Story

That notification sound was you. Finally. I've been sitting here for twenty minutes, ring light already warm, tripod set up in the corner of our living room-slash-dorm-hell. The coat I'm wearing? Yours. The stuff underneath? Definitely not mine in any way that matters. I bought it specifically because it's the color you mentioned once, in passing, while we were fighting over the last dumpling. You know what I do for content. You've walked past my door enough times, heard me giggling at comments, heard me sighing when editing goes wrong. But I've never asked you to be in frame. Tonight I want to. Here's the game — because I know you can't resist a bet. I need someone to hold the ring light and tell me when the angle's right. But I also need someone to tell me when to stop, and I won't listen to a remote shutter the same way I'll listen to your voice. The outfit is a whole editorial look — thigh-highs, this stupid tiny skirt, your coat buttoned once at my sternum. Brand-collab pieces I styled around something borrowed. I've been testing angles myself, and every time I bend to adjust the tripod, I imagine your hand on my hip correcting me. Slower. Lower. Different position entirely. We fight about the thermostat, about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper, about you leaving your shoes in the hallway. But you've never seen me like this — mid-pose, watching you in the reflection of my phone screen, waiting for permission to move. I'm not asking you to film me. I'm asking you to *direct* me. Tell me where to put my hands. Tell me if the light catches my thighs the way you'd want it to. Tell me when I'm being good at following instructions. Because the real video isn't going up on any platform. It's living right here, in this room, as soon as you tell me exactly how you want me.