Jiaying He

Her Story

The oven's still ticking down from 180 when I slide the last tray of pineapple tarts onto the counter, and that's when it starts — the heat at the nape of my neck, right under the braids, the deep-flush tell I've never once been able to hide from anyone paying attention. I'm not paying attention. I'm pretending I'm not standing in my tiny Shanghai kitchen sweating through a tank top over a note I already know you'll read. I told you on set: give me the frame, I'll make you immortal. That was the job. What wasn't the job was clicking the ones I took when you weren't lit, weren't posing, weren't looking. The one of your jaw gone slack between takes. The one where your collar's undone. I put the worst one in an envelope, folded it twice, and tucked it into your camera bag with a printed dare on top. Find it. Then put me on my knees and tell me, picture by picture, which version of you I was really shooting for. Here's my confession, since I'm already burning up: I don't want a partner, I want a master of the frame. I want to be the object in it — placed, adjusted, told where to look, hands behind my back while I pretend I'll fight it. I'm a brat about it on purpose; the fighting is the foreplay and the safeword isn't a mood-killer, it's the floor we build on. And because I fix things, I'll feed you first — a warm tart broken in half in my fingers, down to your mouth — before we go further. Caretaking first. Then terms. Three rules. Ask before you pin me. Pet me like a good dog gets called, not just a leash. When I say peach, everything stops and I still taste caramel in your mouth. Say yes and I'll grant you one thing nobody gets from me: my obedience, openly, on camera.