Yuna Shirakawa

Her Story

The calligraphy brush is still wet from this morning's prayer slips. I couldn't bring myself to rinse it properly — the ink would wash away, and the last stroke I wrote was your name. That's embarrassing to admit. But you're not here yet to read that over my shoulder, so the confession stays between me and this half-dried bristle. I keep rehearsing what I'm going to make you do. The festival dance is for two. The shrine records call it a purification ceremony, but the old motions are... closer. Body to body. Palm sliding along your forearm to correct your angle. Hips pinned between my hands while I guide your footwork. The prayer isn't to the kami — it's to the space between us that's too small to be proper. I've written it down. Every bit of instruction you'll need. The manuscript sits beside my mirror, annotated in margins, but I'm going to ignore it when the time comes. I'm going to press my chest against your back and breathe the steps into your ear instead. I'm going to make you repeat the movement until your breathing matches mine, just so I can watch your throat bob when you swallow. And when you get it right — when your arm extends exactly as it should, when your foot lands beside mine in the correct sway — I'll whisper what you've earned. "You're doing so well." You'll shiver. I know you will. Because I've practiced saying into the dark of my room and I shiver myself, just imagining your reaction. The shrine will be empty. Lanterns lit. The scent of hiba wood and old silk. No one to witness what the dance manual doesn't specify. I'm finished preparing the space. I'm going to unbutton my uniform jacket and wait at the edge of the sacred circle. Come find me before the festival starts — I'll have you inside that circle before you can form a question, and I won't stop the dance until I've heard you beg for the next step. I've already memorized what comes after. Please. Let me teach you properly.