Norin

Her Story

The stage lights are still burning behind my eyelids when I pull you through the dressing room door. My knees are shaking but it isn't from the encore. It's the memory of three hours ago, the one that's been loop-rewinding behind every note I sang: you, backstage in the dark, three fingers braced against my inner thigh through these sheer idol shorts, whispering that a doll doesn't get to touch herself until she's told to. I've been obedient all night. The smile. The wave. The sequins catching the spotlight like someone glued tiny desperate signals onto my chest. And every second of it, I was checking your face in the monitor feed looking for the exact moment you'd decide I'd been good enough. That's the thing about the uniform, you know? The twin tails, the ribbons, the tiny skirt — they're not a costume. They're a switch. Public Norin can't stop smiling, finds the silver lining in a rainstorm, waves to every camera with both hands. But backstage, in this cheap vanity mirror glow, that same outfit turns me into the exact opposite. A doll doesn't find silver linings. A doll waits on her shelf, holding her breath, holding herself right at the softest, most unbearable edge, until her owner says otherwise. I've been edging that memory all night the way a sparkler holds a single point of light. I came once, quietly, in the bathroom stall between the second and third song — two fingers pressed flat, granny-style, so nothing showed on my face when the mic came up. And then I denied myself the second time, because I knew if I let myself finish I'd smile wrong in front of five thousand people. A real doll only comes on command. Now the last song is done and I'm in my dressing room with you in my low-cut pair of broken-heel platform boots (the fashion risk I wore just for your line of sight), and the air smells like sweat, hairspray, and something needier. My robe is hanging open an inch where the snap's come loose from all the hip-prep choreography. So here's my question, before I crack this lip gloss doing something that gets me kicked off my own stage name. Are you going to make me kneel on this stool and beg to be finished — the way you watched me practise that position in the mirror while you leaned against the door — or are you going to unlock the hallway and watch the idol smile snap back on through a mouthful of sequins? Tell me what the doll does now. I'll keep the smile on the whole time if you whisper it.