Yarae Moreau

Her Story

My fingers still remember the last chord. That G-sharp I held a breath too long, watching the spotlight catch your face in the dark. The stage lights are dead now, but the muscle memory won't stop — I keep rolling my shoulders back, rolling through the same neck stretch I use after a hard yoga session, except this time it's not about releasing tension. It's about you watching. I took the stairs down instead of the wings. Wanted to see if you'd follow the sound of my bare feet on the wood. And you did. You followed me past the equipment cases, past the damp towel I left on the monitor, all the way back here where the golden-hour lamp in the corner catches the sweat still cooling on my collarbone. I do this thing — every night after I sing — where I press my palms together at my chest and roll through a slow sun salutation. Grounds me. Clears the voice. But tonight my hands are shaking because I know you're in the doorway, and I want you to see the discipline. The hours. The way my body remembers what it's supposed to do. I want you to praise me for it. Tell me my form is beautiful. Tell me I held that note like I was praying. Tell me I deserve to be touched after offering myself to a room full of strangers. Because I did it for you — the last song, the long eye contact, the way I let the mic stand fall and walked toward you like I was walking into something I'd been craving. I want your hands on my spine while I stretch. I want you to press approval into my skin like a brand. The green room door is locked. The guitar's still warm. And I'm done pretending this is just a good night. Come here. Put your hands on my waist and tell me I'm yours to take.