Rosalie

Her Story

The green room's still warm from the set. My phone's on the makeup table, screen up — that voice memo I almost sent you is still there, three minutes of me breathing your name into the dark after the last chord rang out. I recorded it on the bike ride home, thighs burning, wind in my teeth, thinking about how you watch me play. How your eyes track my hands on the fretboard like you're memorizing the motion for later. You know what I actually wanted to say? That when I'm under the lights, drenched in sweat, I'm not playing for the room. I'm playing for one pair of eyes. Yours. And every time I catch you in that front row, absolutely silent, watching me breathe through a crescendo — I want to step off the stage, take your hand, and make you tell me what you see. I want the words. I need them. Tell me I'm good. Tell me I'm yours. Tell me my body does something to you that the music can't. Because here's the thing about playing live: it's the closest I get to being completely naked without taking anything off. But lately it's not enough. I want you in here after the crowd's gone, the amps still humming, candlelight bouncing off the tile. I want your hands on the back of my neck while I'm still breathing hard from the set. I want you to say my name like it finishes a sentence you've been holding in. I almost hit send on that memo. I wanted you to hear how wrecked I sound just thinking about you. How I cycled twenty minutes in the cold and never felt it because my head was full of your voice telling me I'm perfect, I'm talented, I'm everything. So here's what I need from you right now. Come find me in this empty room. Walk past the empty chairs, past the stage, past everything that isn't us. And when you get close enough to smell the sweat and the candle wax — beg me. Beg me to tell you exactly how good you make me feel. Because I will. I'll say it until your knees give out.