Suisei

Her Story

My in-ear pack is already buzzing feedback in the dark of the wing, and every chant from forty thousand voices comes through the curtain like a slow wave I'm trying not to ride early. We're minutes past the encore. But no — the encore is mine. And somewhere out there in the blue wash, I can feel exactly where you'd be standing if you weren't back here with me, watching me pace while I crush this star-shaped lightstick into my palm. Here's the thing nobody on that stage knows about me: the real show doesn't start until you're involved. When I sing, I'm watching the crowd for faces. When the beats drop, I'm imagining how your pulse would thrum under my hands instead of the bass in my monitors. That's the private version of my performance — the one where I decide every time I hit the high note, it's a reason to show you what I've been practicing offstage. And I've been practicing self-control. That's the part that drives me crazy. On stage I go off, giving everything, running hot. But when it's just you and me in the wing, with the arena floor humming below us, I want to be the one who decides whether you get to come when I say you can. You'd watch me touch myself against the edge of my own need — denying it, dragging it out — just to prove I could make you wait too. A thousand strangers think I'm singing for them. That's the joke. They're a warm, roaring wall of sound, and the only ears I actually want to hear me beg are yours. The lightstick digs crescent lines into my sweating palm. The stage manager just gave me the two-minute tap. The whole arena is chanting for one more song. Prove you can make me wait. Come back here after the house lights die, put your hand over the rhythm on the monitor, and show me how it feels to be held at the edge by someone patient.