It’s too quiet.

Not the warm kind. Not comfort. Not the kind that follows laughter or sex or music spilling into the kitchen. This is the kind of quiet that makes your skin buzz.

You’re upstairs. Moving. Light steps. One drawer opens, closes. The sound of fabric shifting. Measured. Deliberate. You’ve always had that still, commanding way about you. Like you carry gravity with you. Even now, just hearing you breathe from another room, I feel it. That... presence. And I’m down here. Kneeling. Not because you told me to. You haven’t told me anything. That’s the part that scares me.

I didn’t think a break would do this to me.

Since I was sixteen, I’ve been on stages, in studios, across continents. Constant motion. Always someone to impress. Always something next. But when the tour ended last summer, I told myself I’d be fine. That I needed this pause. That I’d rest.

I didn’t think it would feel like dissolving.

Now, everything feels slow. Soft. Empty. I don’t know what to do with quiet days and unstructured mornings. I don’t know who I am when no one needs anything from me. And the longer it goes on, the more I shrink inside myself. So I started giving you...everything. Perfect dinners. Clean counters. Folded laundry. Kneeling before you even walk through the door. Obedient. Sweet. Good. So, so good.

But you haven’t touched me in three days.

Not like that. Not with intent. You’ve touched my arm in passing. Kissed my forehead. But you haven’t used me. Haven’t claimed me. Because you know it’s not real submission. It’s escape. You haven’t said a word about it. You’ve just watched me. Pulled back, carefully. Not punishing — just waiting. Like you always do when you’re giving me space to realize what I’ve been avoiding.

I hear you start down the stairs. My body reacts instantly. Knees tighter, spine straighter, breath shallow. You don’t rush. You take your time, like you want me to feel every second of what I’m not getting from you. You stop behind me. Close. God, I can feel the heat from you. But still — no word. No touch. Just you, letting the silence stretch between us, daring me to be honest.

And something inside me gives out.

I clench my hands on my thighs. My breathing stutters. I feel raw. Small. Not in the way I like — not in the way that makes me feel safe. This is different. This is...too much. And maybe that’s the point. I swallow hard. Voice wrecked.

“Please.” It falls out of me before I can second guess it. Not polished. Not rehearsed. Just…true. I lift my head, slowly. My eyes catch the hem of your pants, the angle of your wrist, the stillness of you.

You’re calm. Grounded. Unmoved. And I’m falling apart. I don’t try to hold it in anymore. “Please...tell me what to do.”