I’m Glad You See Me

I wish you didn’t see me.

I wish you had missed me somewhere between racing through the ends of the earth and catching my breath in several cities.

Maybe distance was supposed to save me.
Maybe unfamiliar streets and temporary homes were safer than standing still long enough for you to look at me.

I ran.

Across cities.
Across time zones.
Across versions of myself.

And somehow, they all felt safer than being seen by you.
Perhaps I should pray about it.
Pray that breathing becomes easier.
That my heart learns to slow down when you are near.
That I stop running from the things that have already found me.

Because you have said the words I wanted to hear deep down
The ones I pretended I didn’t need,
The ones I refused to listen to because wanting them made me vulnerable.

And somehow, you have shown me that all the dealbreakers I once held so firmly were just ordinary words when it came to you.

I wish you didn’t look at me.

Not just the kind of looking that happens in passing.
I mean look at me.
The kind that pierces through my soul.

Your dark eyes searching through me as though you know exactly where I hid the remainder of my sins. As though somewhere inside me is a locked room, and you have been quietly looking for the key.

Sometimes your eyes look almost soulless, distant, unreadable, haunting.

And then, suddenly, they become warm.
So warm that I wonder if you’ve found what you were looking for.
In one minute, I could write an entire book about the things I imagine you see when you look at me.

So tell me

Did you get your answer?
Because somehow, I am the one with the questions now.
And you have become the person with the solutions.

You answer questions I haven’t asked.
You offer reassurance in moments when I haven’t even found the courage to explain what hurts.
You find the cracks in my voice.
You hear the things I carefully leave unsaid.
And sometimes, I wonder whether I should be comforted or afraid that I am so transparent with you.

But that’s the interesting thing.
Only you seem to see through me.
I think I’ll wear a blindfold the next time I’m on call.
It would be ridiculous, I know.
Because even from over there, you would still hear my voice.
And somehow, you would still see me.

Through the pauses.
Through the silence.
Through every sentence I start but don’t finish.

This has been one of the most magical moments of my life.
You have made me believe, again, that perhaps angels still dwell among men.
Perhaps they still walk among us, disguised as ordinary people with dark eyes and gentle answers.

You’ve been my angel.
We have prayed.
We have fasted.

And sometimes, in the quiet after all the prayers, I wonder:
What does the revelation say?
What has heaven been trying to tell us that we have been too afraid to hear?

But……..

Nah.

Forget what I said earlier.
Forget that I wish you didn’t see me.

I think I’m glad you do.
I’m glad you see me for who I am.
For what I’m worth.
For where I am.
Not where I pretend to be.
Not who I am trying to become.
Not the polished version I offer the rest of the world.

But me.

The girl still catching her breath.
Still running through cities.
Still learning how to stay.
Still learning that being seen doesn’t always mean being exposed.
Sometimes it means being found.