They smile,
and the world seems to soften
around them—
like everything they touch
turns to warmth.

They give without thinking,
their hands always open,
offering pieces of themselves
to anyone who asks.
Their kindness flows freely,
effortlessly,
like a river that never runs dry.
And I watch,
wondering how they do it,
how they make it look so easy.

I’ve tried,
I’ve stretched myself thin
to be the person
they make me wish I be,
but it’s hard.
Too hard.
I give,
but it doesn’t feel the same—
like there’s always a part of me
I have to hold back,
a part that doesn’t know
how to be as selfless,
as whole.

Sometimes, I find myself
jealous of the way they exist,
of the way they move through the world
untouched by the weight
of their own needs.
I want to be that free,
to give without hesitation,
to have the heart to match their light.

But I’m not them.
And in the silence of my thoughts,
I wonder
if they even know
how much I long to be like them,
or if they’ve ever felt
the quiet ache
of wishing for something
they can’t quite reach.