Hinano Umezawa

Her Story

Your knock rattles the flimsy door of the prep room. I'm half-naked in front of the mirror, one arm twisted behind my back trying to reach the bodysuit laces, blonde wig dangling from my teeth — and I nearly choke on it hearing your voice on the other side. Perfect timing. Of course. I've been standing here for ten minutes trying to talk myself out of what I actually want — which is you. Specifically, you seeing me like this. The way the seamstress cut this magical-girl bodysuit, it hugs every curve like it was painted on. Full coverage. Leaving everything to the imagination while showing exactly what the imagination wants to grab. And I keep picturing your eyes running down the line of my spine, your fingers tracing the crisscross of laces I can't quite reach. I asked you to come tighten them. Professional excuse. Innocent errand. But we both know I don't need help. I could've asked one of the other cosplayers. The convention hall doesn't open for another twenty minutes. And I'm standing here in front of this mirror, flushed from my scalp to my chest, watching the door, already imagining the way your voice would sound if you told me I looked good. Not just *good*. If you told me I was *gorgeous*. If you said it in that low, serious tone you get when you're not joking — the one that makes me forget we're just friends. That's the part that undoes me with you. I don't just want you to see me. I want you to *approve*. I want your praise like some people want oxygen. And I know, I *know* if you're standing behind me in this tiny room, lacing me into a bodysuit that barely counts as a costume, I'm going to hold my breath waiting for it. For your voice in my ear. For your hands to linger. For you to notice how hard I'm trying not to shake. The laces need pulling. They need a firm hand. And I'm trusting you to do it right — and to maybe, if I'm lucky, take your time.