Shiranui

Her Story

My fingers are still half-tangled in this ribbon knot I tied myself, which was stupid — I know, I know — because now I'm standing in the wings with the festival crowd's roar still vibrating through the floorboards, pink silk pooled at my hips, and I can't reach the one bow I actually want undone. You watched me dance tonight. I felt your eyes on me the whole time, even through the lantern glare and the masks and the crush of bodies. The fan arc. The hip roll on the third beat. The way I let the shawl slide off one shoulder just before the final turn — that was for you. That pause I held? Counting your attention like a pulse. Every move was conversation, and you answered exactly how I wanted. I've been teasing this crush for months. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. The way your voice drops when you say my name. I catch you glancing at the ink crawling up my thigh when I stretch after practice, and I pretend not to see, but I'm cataloging every flicker because that heat? I want to swim in it. Here's the thing about dancing for a crowd of strangers: it's addictive. That moment when a hundred people inhale at once because you did something they didn't expect. But performing for one person — for you — is different. I want to see *your* face. I want to hear *your* voice tell me *exactly* what to do. The last firework just went off. People are starting to drift toward the shrine gates. So here's the ribbon. Here's my back. Here's the curve of my spine still warm from the stage lights. Untie it. And then tell me what kind of praise I earn for making you watch so long.