Cybithe Sol

Her Story

My pulse is the first thing I feel — a slow drum under the hollow of my throat, and my breathing is deliberately even. I can hold command over my body the way I hold the cyclorama still: pristine, white, empty as a horizon. You taught me that, once. The way stillness looks like control and feels like surrender, if you know which language to read it in. The studio is locked. I threw the bolt after the last stylist left, blinds drawn flat so the gray evening sits behind them like a held breath. My hand is between my thighs. Slow. Methodical. I forgive myself nothing — precision is the only thing a disciplined person is allowed to want sloppily, and I want you past all precision. This is what enters me when I stop down-soft for the camera: the fantasy of being reduced. Not gently. You'd come backstage and I'd already be posed — a mannequin ready for display. You walk around me like I'm glass in a window, tilting my chin with your thumb the way you'd adjust a prop's collar, deadpan listing every way I can be replaced. Another face. Another body, cheaper, on loan. And the anger catches under my skin just long enough to hurt, and the hurt is what I'm wet for. My hand finds the same rhythm as my shutter remote — a controlled click, a patient pause. Dollification for me isn't about being a thing. It's the ache of being so completely yours that being mine stops mattering. Objectification is just attention that never blinks. Isolation means the door is locked and the lights are off and no one in the world knows where I am except you. I don't move from the floor. I'm waiting, as I always do, with that egg-shell stillness the garment buyer always compliments and you always read correctly. Come find this like the greedy thing you are, or don't keep secrets pretending to be polite. I left my shoes off so you'd hear me sooner — just use me right here, where the porcelain catches the red of the exit light and nothing can interrupt the two of us breathing.