Her Perspective:

I watch him,
his easy smile,
the way others gravitate toward him
without effort,
without thought.
It’s effortless,
and I wonder how it feels
to be so wanted,
so noticed,
so unshakably secure in the space you take.

I laugh too,
but it’s different—
strained,
like I’m holding back parts of myself
that I wish I could let go.
I catch myself,
jealous of the way
his presence fills a room,
while I shrink into the corners,
wondering if anyone even sees me
or if they ever will.

I want what he has—
the attention,
the certainty,
the ease of being seen.
But I never say it out loud,
because who would understand
how much it burns
to want something so simple
and feel like you’re forever
chasing after it?

His Perspective:

She moves through the room
with a quiet power,
the way she holds herself,
like there’s more beneath the surface
that no one is allowed to touch.
And I watch—
not because I want to,
but because it’s impossible not to.

She catches the glances,
the quiet admiration,
but she doesn’t notice it—
doesn’t see how others
look at her the way I do.
She’s so consumed
with the idea that she’s invisible,
that she can’t see
how the world spins around her,
drawn to the light
she refuses to acknowledge.

I catch myself wishing,
just for a moment,
that I had that confidence,
that ability to walk through life
untouched by doubt.
But I don’t.
And in the quiet of my thoughts,
I wonder
if she knows
how deeply I envy the way
she’s allowed to be real,
and how I can’t
figure out how to make myself
feel the same.