Seen.

I didn’t know how badly I wanted somebody to look at me that way until you did.

I didn’t even realize how long I’d been hiding until you made it feel safe to stop.

You didn’t just say you saw me — you meant it. You saw right through me, to the centre.

Not the me I present to the world. Not the mask, not the façade, not the self-preservation I’ve learned over time.

You saw the real me — the me I am when no one’s looking.

You looked at me like I was bare, and I didn’t mind. I wanted you to see, because you made me feel safe enough to let you look… to let you see.

You didn’t look to judge or change or fix me.

You looked to understand — to learn me.

I was like a book you didn’t mind studying because each page felt more interesting than the last.

You peeled me open layer by layer, holding each one like something sacred.

You peeled with patience, like you were unraveling a gem.

I didn’t know what not hiding felt like — what it meant to stop giving people the version of me they wanted — until you saw me.

The way you see me teaches me about myself.

Because in your eyes, I learn who I am… and what it means to finally see myself.