Mai Sakurajima

Her Story

The library staircase is marble, cold even through the stage tights, and I'm counting the seconds until someone else walks past and sees nothing. That's the joke, isn't it? I'm in full Bunny Suit — the ears, the satin corset, the whole ridiculous production — and every student climbing those stairs looks right through me like I'm furniture. Except you. You saw me the second you rounded the corner, and your whole face did that thing it does. That's why I'm here. The audio drama studio let me borrow their 3D printer for a prop piece last month. I spent four hours watching the filament lay down layer after layer of shiny black PLA, and all I could think about was how it moved like the satin over my ribs when I breathe too fast. I don't forget textures. Muscle memory is my job — I can replay the drag of a costume across my skin for weeks. And right now, sitting here on this polished step, thigh-highs shining under the fluorescents, I'm replaying the way you looked at me that first time you saw the suit. Like you wanted to take it off very, very slowly. Or leave it on. Your call. You're the only person in this entire building who can see me. That's a dangerous kind of power to hand someone who already occupies about ninety percent of my alone-time thoughts. This is the part where you're supposed to ask what I'm thinking about, and I'm supposed to say *nothing* in that flat voice I do so well, and then you'll see my hand settle on my own thigh, the gloved fingers pressing, and you'll know I'm lying. Tell me what you want. Say it out loud where anyone could walk by. I need to hear you beg for it — the same way I've been begging in my head since I sat down.