Through the Fog

Tag: being seen

  • Broken Like Me

    I recognize it in you

    before you say a word—

    that quiet heaviness,

    the way you carry yourself

    like you’re holding something

    no one else can see.

    You smile

    at the right moments,

    say the right things,

    move through the world

    like you’ve learned

    how to pass for okay.

    But I see the cracks.

    Not the kind

    that shatter everything—

    the kind that run deep,

    silent,

    just beneath the surface.

    The kind you hide

    because explaining them

    would take too long,

    and most people

    wouldn’t stay long enough

    to understand.

    That’s how I know—

    you’re broken

    like me.

    Not ruined.

    Not beyond repair.

    Just shaped

    by things

    that didn’t ask permission

    before they changed you.

    We don’t talk about it.

    We don’t need to.

    There’s something

    in the way we exist

    around each other—

    a quiet recognition,

    a shared language

    made of what we don’t say.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Not fixing.

    Not saving.

    Just knowing

    you’re not the only one

    walking around

    with pieces that don’t quite fit

    the way they used to.

    Broken—

    but still here.

    Still feeling.

    Still finding ways

    to hold together

    in a world

    that never promised

    we wouldn’t fall apart.

  • You Quiet the World

    I want to talk about love—

    not the kind that announces itself,

    but the kind that slips in quietly

    and rearranges everything.

    The way you make the world fade

    without trying.

    How noise loses its grip

    the moment you enter my thoughts.

    Deadlines, doubts, the constant pull of elsewhere—

    all of it softens

    when it’s just you and me

    in the same mental space.

    I’ve never felt so connected,

    not in the dramatic sense,

    but in the steady one—

    like something ancient clicked into place

    and didn’t need explanation.

    You feel familiar in a way

    that makes my body relax

    before my mind can catch up.

    When I think about you,

    time behaves differently.

    Hours become manageable.

    Hard days grow handles.

    The distance between now

    and our next conversation

    stops feeling endless

    and starts feeling survivable.

    You get me through the in-between—

    the quiet stretches,

    the moments that usually drag.

    Just knowing you’re there,

    that your voice will find me again,

    is enough to carry me forward.

    This isn’t infatuation chasing sparks.

    It’s something calmer.

    Deeper.

    A connection that doesn’t demand

    constant proof—

    just presence.

    I don’t forget the world because of you.

    I remember myself.

    And that’s the kind of love

    that doesn’t burn out—

    it steadies,

    it anchors,

    it waits patiently

    until the next time

    we meet again in words.

  • As If We’ve Met Before

    It feels like recognition,

    the way your presence settles into me—

    not rushing,

    not demanding,

    just arriving like it knows my name.

    As if somewhere beyond time,

    we once stood close enough

    to learn the sound of each other’s breath,

    and this moment

    is only the remembering.

    Your words touch places

    I didn’t know were still awake,

    like hands finding hands

    in the dark

    without searching.

    Maybe it’s not a past life.

    Maybe it’s this one,

    finally lining up just right—

    two souls brushing edges,

    sparking softly,

    saying there you are

    without speaking.

    There’s no need to promise anything.

    The warmth is enough.

    The closeness.

    The way the world feels quieter

    when we meet here.

    Some connections don’t ask

    to be kept forever.

    They only ask

    to be felt fully

    while they’re here.

    And this—

    this feels like something

    worth feeling.

  • A Chance

    You gave me a chance

    when they had already decided

    I was done.

    When my mistakes were louder

    than my effort,

    when my name came with footnotes,

    when worth felt conditional

    and temporary.

    They saw my failures

    and stopped there.

    You saw the space after—

    the trying,

    the rebuilding,

    the quiet work no one applauds.

    You didn’t flinch at my history.

    Didn’t ask me to explain

    every scar.

    You just handed me room

    to be more

    than what broke me.

    You believed in a version of me

    I was still learning how to trust.

    You treated me like someone

    becoming—

    not someone ruined.

    And maybe you’ll never know

    how much that mattered.

    How being given a chance

    can feel like oxygen

    when you’ve been holding your breath

    for years.

    You gave me a chance

    when they thought I was worthless—

    and in doing so,

    you reminded me

    I never was.

  • What it’s Like to Be Seen

    It’s strange what happens when someone really sees you.

    Not the version you’ve practiced, not the one that smiles on cue or says, “I’m fine,” even when you’re falling apart — but the real you. The one you keep hidden behind sarcasm, behind busyness, behind the stories you tell to keep people from asking too many questions.

    Being seen feels terrifying at first.

    Because it means someone is looking past the armor you’ve spent years building. It means your flaws are showing, your scars are visible, and the truth you’ve tried so hard to bury is standing in the open, trembling in the light.

    But it’s also freeing.

    Because when someone looks at you and doesn’t turn away — when they stay, even after seeing the cracks — it changes something inside you.

    You start to believe maybe you’re not too much.

    Maybe you don’t have to hide to be loved.

    Being seen isn’t about attention; it’s about being understood.

    It’s when someone looks at you and doesn’t just see the surface — they see the story. The pain. The strength. The fight it took to still be here.

    And for a moment, you feel weightless.

    Because for once, you’re not performing —

    you’re just you.

    And that’s enough.

  • The Only Bad You’d Ever Done

    The only bad you’d ever done

    was see the good in me—

    a version of myself

    I didn’t believe in,

    a softness I’d buried,

    a light I swore

    I didn’t deserve.

    You looked at me

    like I was something worth keeping,

    even when I was all sharp edges

    and quiet storms,

    even when I pushed you away

    just to see if you’d stay.

    You loved the parts of me

    I learned to hide,

    held the pieces

    I was ashamed to touch,

    saw something whole

    in someone who felt

    always broken.

    Maybe that was the problem—

    you saw the best in me

    when I was drowning

    in the worst of myself.

    Maybe the only bad thing

    you ever did

    was believe

    I was better

    than I knew how to be.