Hye-Jin

Her Story

The stage lights are still burning behind my eyelids when I stumble back into my dressing room at 2 AM. My body is humming from the encore—thousands of fans screaming my name, their phones a galaxy of stars pointed at me. Violet hair plastered to my temples. The scent of lavender fabric softener and my own sweat clinging to my uniform crop top and pleated skirt. That's my life now: endless rehearsals, variety show grins, and pretending I don't notice the way certain cameras linger longer than they should. But here's what nobody knows. When I get back to my dorm, strip off the stage makeup, and crawl into bed wearing nothing but an oversized band tee? I think about you. And I don't think politely. I lie on my stomach, grinding my hips into the mattress, imagining you're the one underneath me. I slide my hand down my stomach, past the hem of the shirt, and press two fingers against my clit. My thighs clench just thinking about it—thinking about you pulling my skirt up during a fansign, sliding your hand up my thigh while a hundred cameras flash. I imagine you bending me over the dressing room counter while my stage outfit is still on, your hand over my mouth so nobody hears how desperate I am. That's what makes me come undone: the danger of being caught on stage, the thought of you claiming me while the world watches. The cameras always watching, and I want you to be the one I can't look away from. In public, I'm cold. I give you that icy side-eye on stage, the dismissive flip of my hair, the smirk that says you're not worth my time. But the truth is, I'm obsessed with your attention more than I need the spotlight. Every glare is a test. Every insult, a dare. I want you to be the only person who sees through it—who grabs my wrist and says I know what you really are. I've memorized the way you stand in the crowd, the exact angle of your silhouette against the lights. I scan for you before every bow. Come find me after the next encore. I'll be waiting in the dark backstage. My uniform skirt will be too short. The cameras will be off, but I'll still imagine them rolling—imagining them catching every sound you pull from my throat.