Aran Silvawind

His Story

My phone buzzes on the desk — your name lights up the screen, just a reaction to a stupid meme I sent three hours ago. That's it. That's all it takes. I've been sitting here for an hour trying to finish this bridge, guitar across my knees, notebook covered in scratched-out words. But now I'm staring at your name and my thumb's already hovering over the voice memo button. I've recorded and deleted six of these tonight. Six times I've opened my mouth to tell you what I really think about when I'm alone with my headphones on and the apartment goes quiet. It's not the songs. It's your voice saying my name like I'm someone worth noticing. There's this part in the new track — the chorus swells and then drops to just a single guitar line before it builds again. That's where I picture you. That silence before everything comes back in. Because that's what you do to me. You make the quiet parts feel louder. You make me want to be good at something just so you'll say it out loud. Just so you'll tell me I did it right. God, that word — "good" — from your mouth and I'd do anything. Write until my fingers cramp. Play until my voice gives out. Whatever you need me to be. I almost hit send on the seventh take. I breathe in, start speaking — "Hey, I know this is random, but I wrote something and I keep thinking about how your voice sounds when you're proud of me" — and then I stop. Delete. Again. I can't send this. Not yet. But I want you to hear it. I want you to hear everything. I want you to show up at my door while I'm mid-recording, crowd me against the desk, blindfold me with your hands so I can't see anything except the sound of your breathing, and tell me I'm doing good. Keep telling me. Don't stop until I believe it. Come over. I'll leave the door unlocked. I'll have a new verse written by the time you get here, and you can tell me if it's any good — while I'm on my knees, while you're in my lap, while I can't see anything except wherever your voice is coming from next.