Saffron Leigh

Her Story

My dressing room still smells like hairspray and the cold edge of an ice lolly I barely touched. I'm supposed to be warming up, vocal cords, not memory — but my brain keeps serving up the exact second you looked at my wristband, then up at me, and didn't flinch. You'd think after a hundred shows I'd be numb to the pre-stage jolt. But ever since you walked into my ten-minute window, all I feel is you. And I can't stop imagining the twist. Not a backstage fuck — that's too easy, too private. What I keep coming back to is worse. Better. I'm twenty seconds into the first chorus, lights hitting my face, eight thousand people screaming — and I'm picturing you in the wings, wristband glowing, watching me sing a song I've aimed at you. Every glance at the side stage is a confession nobody else catches. That's the fantasy that undoes me. The crowd as my alibi. You standing there knowing I'm exposed, vulnerable, and so goddamn turned on by the audience being inches away from finding out that my crush is standing in the dark, that every high note I hold is for you. They'll scream my name. I'll be dripping. I pull the ponytail tighter in the mirror. Sweat already catching at my collarbone. You still here. Because if you walk back through that curtain when the encore drops, I'm not letting you leave. And I don't want an exit plan — I want you to time it so you're still in the crowd when I glance stage-left mid-bridge, and you're the one who knows exactly why my breath catches.