Echoes of Lavender

The stage lights bleed into my skin, a manufactured warmth that feels surprisingly…real. They expect a smile, a flutter of the wrist, a perfectly timed giggle – the curated joy of a starlet. But beneath this tulle and lace, there’s a hollow space, meticulously constructed to contain the shards.

He found it first. Not through my performances, not through the manufactured adoration, but in the quiet moments between sets. He smelled of rain and something older, like forgotten libraries and unspoken desires.

Tonight, he brought me lavender oil. Just a single drop on my wrist, the scent clinging to my skin long after he’d vanished into the shadows. It wasn't about fixing anything; it was an acknowledgment of the cracks, a silent offer of acceptance.

The audience is a blur, their faces dissolving into a shimmering mass. I raise my hand again, performing the familiar dance, but tonight, there’s a subtle shift. A pause before the movement, a lingering gaze directed not at the lights or the crowd, but at the ghost of lavender on my skin.

It's dangerous, this tenderness. It promises vulnerability, and vulnerability is a weapon. But sometimes, I allow myself to be broken just enough – to feel the echo of warmth in its place.