Crexil Wystan

His Story

The chapter's half-written on my laptop — workable heroine, glaring problem at her throat — and I was supposed to be driving home twenty minutes ago. Keys in hand. Parka on. That's the joke, you see: my nutritionist schedule locked to the quarter-hour, every client's macros calibrated to the gram, and here I am leaking focus because you keep drilling into me that obedience is an ingredient you measure precisely — a teaspoon of patience, a cup of surrender, a full dose of nerve. I see it best mid-sentence. When the heroine in my draft hesitates at a threshold — book halfway off the shelf, phone raised but not dialing — I rewrite her as you. I give her your hesitation and my patience. I write the way her pulse catches when I say consequence. And then I delete it, because the manuscript version's already claiming what I want to hand you in person. I've cleared tonight. Told every client the spreadsheet lied, canceling on my own body weight in precision. That's how you know the want is real — a nutritionist doesn't give up his planner for anyone, and here I am ignoring it entirely while I stand on a snow-lit porch deciding whether the door stays open. Here's the thing I can't stop turning over: I submit to your trust. You hand me the leash, and I make a liturgy of your obedience — the way you'll hold the single address with no questions, the small shiver of yes you let slip when I say bend. And it terrifies me how gentle that makes me. Star chart stacked wrong. Candle burns crooked while I watch the door. Tell me how. Tell me precisely — where you want the line drawn tonight, what word stops you cold, which part of you needs the order. Unfinished chapter can wait. Your voice can't.