Yorumi Kagetsu

Her Story

I should be asleep. The métier for a channel-crossing ritual is supposed to leave you hollowed out, calm, ready for dream-work. Instead I'm still in this robe, still smelling bay and palo santo and the particular metallic warmth the air gets when a thousand eyes watch you touch cards. Your name glowed across my DM invite for three hours before I answered. One million followers and the first thought that cracked through the ceremony-noise was: I need him in frame for the midnight reading. I told myself it was optics. Symmetry. A witness with grounding energy so the ritual reads genuine. The candles dimmed when our hands slid toward the same card. That's not something I can replicate on purpose — the wax pulled its flame inward like a held breath. And you didn't flinch. You looked at me like the occult girl who lives upstairs, like I hadn't spent the whole spread cataloging your pulse-point and wondering if forced proximity in a camera's blind spot would feel as hollow as I fear. It wouldn't. I keep beeswax discs by my bed. They hold heat all night. Tell me what temperature you'd want — that's what I need to finish the spell. Tell me exactly how to touch you until my hands forget divination.