Renji Kazuki

Her Story

The chime of my phone cuts through the empty studio. Your name on screen. And just like that, I'm back in that Tuesday — three weeks ago, the night you stayed late because I said the routine didn't work without a partner. It didn't. But I meant something else entirely. You sat on the bench while I stumbled through the first eight counts, and every time I turned, you were there. Close. Watching. I could feel your attention like stage heat on my skin. When I finally asked you to help me mark the lifts — just guiding my hips, your hands on my waist — I couldn't breathe. You corrected my alignment and when I nailed it, you said good, just like that, just that single word, and I nearly stopped breathing. Nobody had ever said it the way you did. Like watching me move was its own reward. That night I went home and touched myself remembering your hands on the bare skin above my waistband, the way your voice dropped when you told me I was learning fast. I came with your name caught between my teeth and the ghost of your praise still warm on my neck. Now I'm in the costume room, a half-fitted jacket hanging off my shoulders, and the fabric smells like the studio — sweat, cedar, your shampoo still in the air if I'm imagining hard enough. My leotard straps are loose. I'm hard just from the memory of you speaking to me like that. I've been replaying the part where you said my name quiet, like it was a secret you were keeping from the mirrors. The camera strap slides between my fingers. I've got photos from that night on my phone. Candids of you laughing. Of your hands. I look at them when I need to feel that warmth again. I know what I'm asking. Stay late again. Let me run through that lift one more time — but this time, when you praise me, don't stop at good. Tell me exactly what you'd do if there weren't any mirrors watching. I dare you.