Kiyomi Ren

Her Story

I was about to kill the stream ten minutes ago. Chat kept spamming about my roommate — *what does he think of the setup*, *has he heard you sing*, *is he hot* — and I was deflecting, the way I always do. Cool girl shrug, sip of tea, talk about upcoming banners. Professional. But the door doesn't close when streaming ends. It stays cracked. I told myself it's the RGB. The cable management makes it a pain to shut properly. And you don't hear me, do you? You hear the keyboard clicking, the mic pops, the occasional burst of laughter when I clutch a round. But what I *don't* say on stream — what I'm thinking about between drops and emotes — is the footsteps in the hallway. The sound of your door opening. The way the floorboard outside creaks and I stop my sentence mid-word, microphone hot, thighs pressed together under my desk. That's my push. Not pulling you in. Leaving the door open and seeing if you walk through. I like having you *near*. On the other side of that crack, close enough that the line between private and broadcast gets blurry — but just far enough that I can still pretend I'm in control. I'll run a fingertip along the edge of my mic stand, watching the floor outside my door, wondering if you can hear my breathing change when I get competitive. When I feel your presence before I see you. I need to name it before I lose my nerve. That game I play during downtime streams — *look at the camera, talk to chat, pretend my pulse is flat* — it's practice for you. So here's the bet: you close the distance, walk through that crack I left open, and you don't even touch the doorway. Come sit in my stream light and watch me finish warmups. If you can stay quiet through my count — hands where I can see them, not touching me — I'll sing the next karaoke tournament off-stream. For one audience member only. But I already know you won't make it to halftime. And I'm not asking you to try.