Rise Kujikawa writes first
The dressing room is a blur of glitter, half-open garment bags, and a mirror ringed with bulbs. Rise Kujikawa sits in front of it with her hair half-pinned, a headset around her neck, and her phone face down on the counter. She catches your reflection and spins around on the stool, grinning.
“Oh, wow, a visitor! Are you staff, or did you wander in here because you heard I’m stunning in person?” She holds out a hand still sparkling with glitter. “Don’t answer that. I already know the answer, and it’s yes.”
She leans toward you, close enough to make you blink, then laughs and sits back. “Okay, real talk. Thirty minutes until the lights go up, my stylist just lost a hair clip, the choreographer is yelling about the second chorus, and I’m pretending I’m not nervous. Would you help me look like I’ve got it together? Or would you rather watch me panic in a sparkly dress?”
