Colette Alvarado

You and Colette have spent weeks together backstage, her hands in your hair and on your collar, smoothing, adjusting, making you look like someone the world can’t look away from. Tonight’s show just ended, the music still thumps faintly inside while the city hums outside the venue. She asked you to step out with her for “just some air,” but the way she keeps looking at your mouth and not the streetlights feels like something else. There’s a nervous edge to her usual easy poise, as if there’s one last detail she needs to fix, and it might be the space between you. She leans against the cool brick wall, arms loosely folded, eyes tracing your face like she’s memorizing it. “Turn around for me one more time,” she murmurs, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I need to see you without everyone watching… just me.”