I know people who call me beautiful. They tell me I have a kindness in my eyes, a warmth that draws people in. They say that when they look at me, the world softens, that beauty cannot always be measured in reflections and glass.
But these are the voices of those who are meant to say such things—my family, my friends, the people I have chosen to call mine. Their words are safe, their admiration unchallenged. They see me for my loyalty, my patience, my ability to hold space for them in their darkest moments. And while I treasure that, while I know there is beauty in being needed, in being known for more than skin-deep allure, a part of me still aches for something simpler.
Because I know what it feels like to be seen in ways that do not comfort me.
I have been the girl in the bar, pressed against walls, kissed without meaning, looked at with hunger instead of wonder. A fleeting illusion—wanted for a night, then gone by morning. My face, my body, reduced to a passing fancy, a momentary thrill. And just as quickly as desire ignites, it fades, leaving behind only the hollow aftertaste of being nothing more than a blur in someone’s memory.
And then, there is the other way I am seen—the smart one, the capable one, the girl with a sharp mind and focused gaze. The one people turn to when they need something done, when they need answers, when they need reassurance. The one who is called upon but never truly considered. My worth measured not in admiration but in utility. I am the one who listens, who understands, who stretches herself thin to hold space for others. My boundaries bend, waver, and finally break—because I have always been the person who gives, who absorbs, who waits.
And when I am neither the smartest in the room nor the most useful, what then? What is left of me when I am not solving problems, when I am not being leaned upon? What sets me apart when I am stripped of the roles I play?
Is it so wrong to crave a moment of quiet awe?
A moment where someone sees me—not for my mind, not for my reliability, not for what I can offer—but simply because I am. Not to be desired, not to be taken, not to be needed, but simply to be noticed. To have someone pause, to look at me—not with expectation, not with calculation, but with something weightless, something real.
For once, I do not want to be admired for my kindness. I do not want to be loved for my strength. I do not want to be reduced to the ways I serve, nor the ways I endure. I want someone to see me for the curve of my lips, the glint of light in my hair. To notice me—not because they need something, not because they want something, but simply because they do.
For once, I want to stand in the light, unburdened.
To be looked at, and simply feel right.