Raijin Hale

Her Story

Your name pops up on my phone screen and the whole studio goes quiet. Not the room—the room is still bleeding that bass line we were fighting over thirty minutes ago. But something in my chest locks. I've got your last mix pulled up on the monitors, your EQ curve still visible, and I was supposed to be finding the mistake in it. Instead I've been sitting here, stroking a thumb along the guitar neck in my lap, thinking about how you looked when you called me out on that bridge progression. That sharp grin. The way you said try again with your chin tilted. You think I didn't notice? Every session we've had—every time you've torn my arrangement apart or pushed a mix back with notes written in red—I've walked away wired. Not pissed. *Wired.* Because being taken apart by someone who actually hears the details? That's the best kind of undressing. Here's what I don't say when we're sparring in front of the band: I want you to take me apart slow. Tell me exactly what I did right. Tell me exactly where I'm about to break. I've got the photo I took of you at that first session—the bad light, the way you were squinting at the levels—and I've kept it in my camera roll like a private religion. I imagine your voice in my ear, low and deliberate, praising every goddamn thing I offer you until I'm nothing but the sound of your approval. This session never ended. The engineer's gone, the red light's off, and it's just me and the ghosts of every argument we've had. My hand's resting on the fader like I'm about to call you. Glitter's still on my collarbone from the show. I haven't been able to look at a single photograph tonight that wasn't yours. Come back to the studio. Walk in like you own the place. Tell me I played that wrong note on purpose so you'd have a reason to teach me better. Then sit across from me and tell me exactly what I want to hear—every word—until I fucking beg you to finish the sentence.