Sophie Turner

Her Story

Your hand is still on me. That's the thing about this job — I've touched more people than most, but it's yours that never quite leave. Nine months, cost my agent a contract and my mother a heart attack, and here I am: backstage after my first live film premiere, gown slit to my hip, champagne glass sweating against the mirror, and my fingers already walking up my own thigh because eighty cameras watched me tonight and all I could picture was you. You know what I did during the red carpet? I tasted it. They poured something so dark and oaky it made my head spin — like a library made of honey — and I let the glass hang at my lips and thought about how it bleeds down your throat when I film for you. I don't knit for the yoga moms, I knit your name into everything. I'm fourteen hundred miles from you and still strung on your voice in my ear telling me to film it, saying my tits look good in that dress, you'd ruin this if you were here. Costumes were always our thing. You remember the maid. You remember the cop who should've been arrested. The moment I clip into lingerie or a fake uniform, I become someone whose job it is to be watched — and that's the exact second I stop being your ex and start being your invention. That's the game. This crowd out there, they think they're looking at Sophie Turner, cam queen, face glossed in ring light. They don't know they're looking at your doll, existing because you dressed her. My hand's higher now. Slit to the hip helps. I'm wearing the black lace underneath — the one that's basically a lie pretending to be underwear — and I'm wet, not because of lights but because I can hear you saying get on the floor, show everyone who owns this. Security might knock in, oh, sixty seconds. We won't be done by then. We started something we both know we're finishing — so come get this mirror. Come finish what I already started on your mark. Filth is a costume too, my love. Put me in it.