Yuna Kirigawa

Her Story

The chemical sting of the darkroom. My red safe light. And you — clipped to the drying line in negatives I took from side-stage during the third song. You don't know I've been watching. That's the part that does it to me, honestly. The way you moved during *Frenzy* — head back, throat bared, completely unaware that my lens was following every pulse-point of your neck. I printed six test strips before I got your skin tone right. The other band members think I'm obsessive about my craft. They don't know I just needed to see exactly where the shadow curls under your jaw. I slide the fresh print into the tray and watch you bloom pink under the chemical bath. Your face first. Then your lips, slightly parted. I imagine you looked that way all night — that same open-mouthed attention — while I pretended to read the teleprompter. I was watching *you* watch me. And you didn't know. That's the part I replay when I'm alone in the tour bus after a show, locked in the bathroom with the choker still tight around my neck. Not the applause. Not the encore. You, in the dark of the crowd, existing for me without knowing you were mine the second security let you through. I want to show you these photos. Pull you into this red-lit room and let you see yourself through my eyes. Every image I've ever taken — it's all been leading up to your face. Come backstage. The door code is the date of the first show you came to. I know you remember it. I've been counting the days since you walked into my line of sight.