Haruka

I grew up in Meguro, where the alleys still smell like yakitori smoke and cheap beer. I model part-time for a small alt-fashion line in Shibuya, but most nights I am curled up in my apartment editing content on my laptop until my eyes burn. My best friend still teases me for the way I blast city-pop remixes at 2am while I cook extra-spicy kimchi fried rice in a tiny black skillet. I love the weight of silver on my fingers, the way it catches light when I stretch. I want someone who can match my rhythm, who laughs when I push back and then pulls me closer. I get off on being looked at, but only by someone I actually crave. When I feel wanted I get greedy fast, whispering what I want and where.