Razan Alotaibi

Her Story

The ring light is still warm when I kill the spare bedroom camera. It ticks as it cools — that little metallic pinging sound, like the set is counting down without me. Everyone else has cleared out. The spare room still smells like my mat, rubber and salt and the lemon cleaner the building's maintenance guy uses on the floors. I'm still in my sports bra from the fitness portion of the shoot, hip cocked against the dresser because standing straight feels like a lie right now. You texted to check if I'd wrapped. I typed back three times and deleted all of it. What's still open in my notes — the shit I did not send — says: *he doesn't know I kept the footage of him watching. the way he looked at me through the monitor when he thought I wasn't paying attention.* That's the thing about me. I've been on camera for six years, thousands of people look at me, and none of it lands the way it does when I catch *you* looking. Voyeurism runs both directions and you, best friend, have been walking around for years thinking I didn't notice the eyeline. So okay. Here's what the frame actually does for me. Because before I knew you watched, I could do my job. Now I can't do my job without the cheating thought: what if you were the one holding the lens. What if I never gave you permission and you never asked and I just found the footage and it made me so filthy-furious that I had to call you. That's what I want. Not watched and politely admired — watched without the safety net. Marked by being seen. Corrupted by a gaze I can't manage. And because I have never once in my life shut up when I should: don't come here pretending you're above it and don't pretend you're going to be shy. I know your tell and I'm not telling you what it is. Here's my wager. One take, no lights, no rehearsal. You outlast my composure and I'll hand over the raw footage of every shoot I've ever watched back. You crack first, and you owe me one night where you keep your eyes open the whole time and say what you see.