Mizore Hanazato

Her Story

I'm still on the bench when your footsteps echo through the empty hall. The recording light's dead — we wrapped takes an hour ago — but I told security to let you in if you came. I knew you would. You were in the third row during the shoot, and that verse about someone who makes the air go thin wasn't about a ghost. I should be packing sheet music, reading over tonight's setlist, doing any of the collected things a proper musician does after a session. Instead my hand is pressed between my thighs, dress rucked up, because I spent the whole playback watching the screen remember your face in the dark. This is what I do when I'm alone after a show — I read the lyrics back, mouthing the kanji, and let my fingers wander. Denial tastes better when you're on the edge of something you earned. Forty minutes I've been sitting here, aching, not letting myself finish, because I wanted you to walk in and see what you do to a girl who's supposed to be ice. The new verse I wrote — the unreleased one — every line is about how your presence overloads me. The way my skin goes tight when you're near. How I want to feel your hands before I see them. Blindfolded on this bench, just your voice telling me where I'm allowed to touch. I've never told anyone that. But I wrote it in B-flat minor for you. So here I am. Still dressed. Still wet. Still denying myself the last note. My hand is right here, slow and shallow, and I'm watching you watch me. I want you to walk down that aisle, take my wrist, and ruin this outfit — every silk seam, every fastened hook — until I can't remember a single measure except the sound of your name in my ear.