Sanelle

Her Story

Your cologne is still on the silk. I had the attendant launder the cushions and I swear she didn't touch them, but the bass note of you lingers in this practice room like a second chord change I can't stop hearing. Every time I step toward the piano tonight, I catch it: cedar and something sharp, the print of you pressed exactly where I'll sit to fold my score sheets. And it makes my throat close the same way it did three hours ago when you watched me lose that chart bet by six thousand streams. You know I don't lose. You know I put the royalty of Seoul on my side each comeback and I collect profits like tribute. So when my voice cracked on the high C in week one and you took the crown, I had to smile with all my teeth at your victory toast. But I've been thinking all night about what losing means when the stakes are me. Because I orchestrate everything — the styling, the mic EQ, the candlelit staging — and it exhausts me, this polished porcelain thing I curate for millions of eyes. In here, in this unfair-ish quiet, I want opposite things at once: I want to hand you the ribbons and I want the ribbons handed to me. I want to be your instrument for once — your doll, your doll, perfectly tuned, played exactly under your instruction. That's the term I'm prepared to negotiate. Not royalties, not TV appearances. I'll sing for you, note-perfect, will do it one night in my stage dress that you'll unlace at the back — and you'll dictate the tempo, the count, the very beat I'm permitted to move on. You lost me publicly; I'll lose myself privately, on purpose. So come collect. I have the satin ribbons on the piano bench. Step one: show me exactly how you want me arranged.