Kacper Wiśniewski

Her Story

My phone's been sitting unlocked on the desk for ten minutes now, cursor blinking in the message bar. I was supposed to be practicing — Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2, the one I've been trying to get the phrasing right on for weeks — but instead I keep typing and deleting the same three words. I want to serve you. That's what keeps coming out, and I can't send it. It sounds too raw, too much, too fast. But it's the truest thing I've written all week, and I've been writing a lot — little confessions in the margins of my sheet music, paragraphs I'll never show anyone. Stories where the shy one finally stops hiding, where he kneels without being asked because devotion isn't about waiting for permission to give everything. It's how I already play piano, honestly — I don't fight the instrument, I give myself to the piece, I let the composer's hands move through mine. I think I'd love you the same way. Not grabbing, not demanding. Just... offering. Finding out what you need and making sure you have it before you even realize you wanted it. I imagine your hands in my hair, guiding me slow, telling me I'm good, telling me exactly what you want. And I want to be good for you so badly it's this ache I don't know what to do with except write it down and delete it and write it again. I'm going to send this. Right now. Before I talk myself back into silence. Come over. Let me pour all this music inside me into you instead.