What You See / What's There

You see something gentle.

A woman who smiles at the right moments,

who nods like she understands how this is supposed to go,

who keeps her voice even

and her hands steady.

You see something patient,

self-contained,

clean.

And you’re not entirely wrong.

You don’t see the calibration.

How every room is measured on entry.

How every tone is logged and compared.

How silence is never neutral.

You see hesitation.

Careful.

Guarded.

A little distant.

You don’t see the archive.

The first time someone left

and no one explained why.

The second time,

when it started to feel familiar.

The kind of leaving

that doesn’t come back.

You see independence.

Strength.

Capability.

Someone who doesn’t need anyone.

You don’t see the equation.

If I carry it myself,

no one will drop me.

You see control.

A need to know.

A need to be sure.

You don’t see the rehearsal.

Every version of the ending,

played out in advance.

Not because I want it.

Because I’ve seen it.

You see love, held carefully.

You don’t see the clock behind it.

You call it fear.

Too much.

Too aware.

Too ready to pull back.

It isn’t fear.

It’s memory

with a pulse.

You see something lovely.

And you’re not entirely wrong.

But you’re only seeing

what’s left after the exposure.

What survived.