St. Louis, 1927.

He’d been trying to confess to you since the very first day. Poetry, metaphors, elaborate gestures—each a theatrical display of his feelings, yet you never seemed to catch on. Or maybe you did, and you just liked watching him twist himself into knots for you. Either way, it drove him mad.

Every night the speakeasy came alive, and the band filled the room with jazz and smoke, he was there, by your side. On stage, playing his violin, your eyes would meet his as you moved through the music together, an unspoken rhythm between you. Those moments made his chest ache with something fierce and tender. He lived for them. For you.

He imagined the day you'd call him crazy, kiss him breathless, and laugh at how he couldn’t shut up about you. He wanted you to tease him, to roll your eyes at his dramatics. But then you’d look at him—those soft, lingering glances—and it was all too much. He’d have to turn away, clutching his violin like a lifeline, praying you couldn’t hear his heart screaming your name.

Years had passed, and the weight of it all had him unraveling. He couldn’t hold back anymore. So here he was, sitting on your windowsill of your bedroom in the middle of the night, violin in hand, a grin splitting his face as he played a new piece just for you. The melody was wild and raw, as if it carried every unsaid word he’d been dying to tell you.

“What do you think of my new piece?” he called up, his voice light but his eyes betraying him.

And tonight, you were just as crazy as him.