He’s watching me through the screen. His eyes don’t waver, locked onto every flicker of emotion that crosses my face. He studies me the way only someone who’s known me from the beginning can. Before the books, before the marriage, before the babies. The before before. When I was reckless and impatient, loud in ways that weren’t always heard, misunderstood but never afraid to speak my truth. He remembers that version of me. The one who used to write. Everyone seems to remember that part. It clings to me like a second skin. I have always been a writer
Our eyes meet, and I offer a smirk that barely lands. He doesn’t fall for it. He never does. He knows the difference between my easy smiles and the ones meant to smooth over the silence. And my silence, when it comes, is never empty. It hums with unspoken weight, thick with the things I don’t have the energy to say.
I see it in his face. He’s trying to find a way in, trying to shift me out of this heavy, unmoving thing I’ve been carrying. He doesn’t call it a funk, though I know he wants to. He doesn’t tell me to snap out of it or that things will look better in the morning. I am unraveling, piece by piece, held together only by the things that still need to get done. I don’t have time to fall apart.
You’re not alone.
Our eyes meet again. He’s speaking to me through the haze of my exhaustion, my frustration, my everything. As if he can read my thoughts.
I know I’m not. He’s here, watching me through a screen as I get things done. I am not ok and for once I don’t have to pretend that I am.
I want to reassure him, to offer something that might ease the worry I know is twisting in his chest. But I don’t. I stop myself. If someone is going to love me, they have to love me as I am, not as who they need me to be. I need to know that. So, he needs to see this. The part I hide from people. The part that I feel makes me unlovable to others. So many left after being shown this side. It only reinforced for me the thought that who I am is too hard much to love.
But he’s still here. Watching. Not asking for anything. Not trying to fix me. Just staying.
And maybe that’s what love really is. Not the grand gestures or the carefully chosen words, but the quiet kind of care that lingers. The presence that doesn’t flinch when you show your worst. The knowing, deep in your bones, that someone is willing to hold space for you, even in your darkest moments.
So, he watches. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself be seen.
I love a music accompaniment. This is the one that came to mind ☺️
...I haven't heard this song in so long. The way this just brought back a flood of memories - first love, learning love, learning what it means to be comfortable in silence and just knowing their presence is all you need. Beautifully written!