[ the confession of being seen ]
He looked like he’d wandered off the set of a Gandalf film, but I read his soul like it was written by Alan Moore—dense, arcane, and a little dangerous. Maybe it was the silence that gave him away, the way he hoarded his thoughts like spells no one else could cast.
Maybe it was that shared love of being untouchable, of pretending indifference while the air between us crackled with everything unspoken. He played the enigma too well, pages of riddles bound in human skin. I swore I couldn’t get through him even when I already had. His mystery was the gravity. And every time his soul leaned too close, I could feel it….he didn’t want to go, not really... I felt him think of me more when he wasn’t with me (I’m sorry if I’ve villainized you and projected, and you could be sorry if you did mirror the projections). But if he was….with me, really with me 😩 it felt like we were playing the same song in our heads, the notes vibrating through the space between us. The air itself seemed to hum with recognition. I know you. And worse, I know you know that I know you.
Maybe he was called to find me here, in this strange overlap of time and plane. Maybe he’d forgotten the melody, but I hadn’t. I remembered. I always remember.
Our minds 🤯 ah, traitorous little narrators … whispered, leave, even as our souls stayed seated in the same chord with heavy hearts refusing to resolve…. Just like our parents:
still together,
still calling it home,
even when it didn’t always felt like one
to any of us.
So believe me when I say I get it—
why you’d want to go,
why you’d keep your distance.
Because I’d feel like home.
And that’s dangerous, isn’t it?
I’m easy to love, just as you are—
and we both know how heavy home can get
when it stops feeling like freedom.
You’re worth more than staying…
there, here, anywhere
that asks you to shrink.
This is how you made me really feel:
seen, completely.
Like someone finally read the footnotes
in my silence.
And maybe—just maybe?
I made you feel like someone had finally stepped
into your world without flinching,
like the chaos made sense for a moment,
like you didn’t have to translate yourself
to be understood.
And if you recall July 4th,
I remember you liking when I said
“True love is freedom”
I like to think what we had was freedom too—
the kind that doesn’t cage or claim,
just lets you breathe,
and then lets you go.
