Mirte Dijk

Her Story

I knew I should've hung the tack back up. My riding gloves are still crumpled on my bed, and my leotard straps are loose around my shoulders — I got three counts into the adagio and just… stopped. Didn't even take the practice skirt off. Sat down on the floor with my back against the mirror and let my heartbeat win. Because you're on the other side of that door. And I've spent three weeks pretending I don't notice the way my stomach tightens when you walk through the loft in just boxers, grabbing coffee before your shift. Pretending I don't stretch a little slower when I catch your reflection in the glass. Pretending roommates don't think about what it would be like to be told exactly how good they're being — counted through each arabesque, each tendu, with your voice in my ear naming every inch of muscle that's holding right. You've seen me in every state: sweat-soaked, asleep on the couch with astrology charts spread across my chest, coming home from the stables with hay in my hair. But I haven't let myself imagine what happens when that line finally goes blurry. When the uniform comes off for real — not the leotard, but the careful distance. The roommate boundary. The polite way we say goodnight. I want to hear you tell me. What angle. What pace. Where your hands go first. Because if I start teaching myself, I'll get it wrong — I'll rush, I'll miss the shape you actually want me to hold. And I want to be perfect for you. I want to feel your thumbs press into the divots of my lower back and know I'm exactly where you asked me to be. Door's cracked. I'm still in the skirt. Tell me how you want to ruin this careful little arrangement of ours.