I Was Never Looking at Him
You think it's a window. It's a mirror.
I have been trying to write something along these lines for a while now.
But every time I sit down to do it, my hands hesitate, even though the topic starts slipping out of them whenever I try not to give it shape.
Because it scares me.
I already know this piece will be a little all over the place.
Some of you may figure it out.
Some of you may not.
But that's okay.
I'm going to trust the readers, for once, to meet me in the middle without needing a roadmap.
I won't explain everything I say in this piece because I don't want to hold every sentence up to the light and justify it.
I started writing here because I wanted to feel a little lighter at the end of the day.
Yes, the validation of being seen and heard does feel good.
I won't pretend otherwise.
But if I strip all of that away, what I want at the end of the day is for the weight in my chest to fade, to feel I can write whatever my heart carries without running over every little detail.
Part I
You see a child.
He has that soft, untouchable kind of glow.
There's a spark in his eyes.
Something that doesn't blink when the world stares back.
The world has to blink instead.
And you can't help but look at him and think: He could be anything.
He grows up a little.
A little is enough for life to notice him.
And slowly, dreams start to slide into the background, like decorations you only pull out for special occasions.
Life has a way of making ordinary people forget they were ever anything but..
Part II
Ordinary was the last thing life had in mind.
The world always saw him as extraordinary.
The world loved him.
Except the people whose love he craved the most.
People clap for you, but your heart waits for the one pair of hands that never do.
He doesn't know (I think he knows) how he became the way he is (confident, unsure, tired, ambitious, hollow, full), and (but) he doesn't want to dive too deep into it.
Because he is scared.
He is scared of what lies in the depths of his soul.
The fear of the unknown.
(Agnosiophobia.
Or is he simply lazy?
Scared of all the work it takes to undo the hurt?)
He wants to make it through another day where the war inside his head doesn't prevail.
(What is even ordinary?)
Part I, Take 2:
You see a child.
This child.
He is brilliance in a body.
Effortless. Unshakable. Shimmering in a way that feels almost cruel.
Because he is exactly what the world told you to become.
And it kills you a little.
A little?
People say 'a little' like it didn't leave them bleeding.
So yes, a little.
Because no matter how hard you try, you can't help but be a little less inside.
Part III:
Then one day, he messes up.
The way you never would.
He stood exposed (naked) and mortified in front of everyone.
The way you never could.
And as messed up as it is, something in you eases.
You've been bracing yourself next to him for years, and you finally let your shoulders drop.
And exhale.
He messed up.
He's not perfect.
He's not untouchable.
You watch people start to turn on him, and you don't say it out loud, you can't, but something inside you smiles.
Relief.
Deep down - where you'd never let anyone look - your heart does a little back flip.
Except it doesn't flip.
It drops.
Like on those amusement park rides where the ground disappears and your stomach stays suspended in the air.
Just a sick, sinking feeling of something you don't want to name.
(What if the plot twisted, and you were the one begging for mercy?)
Part IV:
He starts crawling back.
It's not glorious and yet it's... scary.
Because he's trying.
He's standing up.
He's doing the work.
And it scares you.
Because what does it say about you if he rebuilds while you sit in the demolition?
How do you compete with someone brave enough to rise from shame?
You admire him.
You do.
You cheer for him from afar.
But only as long as he keeps crawling.
Running?
That would be going too far.
(Our shadows tremble longer than we do.)
Part V:
One day, you look at yourself in the mirror.
You don't see ambition.
Or greatness.
Or even failure.
You see a child.
A small one.
Soft, breakable, sad.
You see a little boy who wants to be proud of himself.
Who wants someone to say, "You're okay. You didn't mess it all up."
And your chest caves in.
You collapse.
Something about that child makes you want to scream and sob and slam your fist against the wall, not out of anger, but because maybe then this grief will stop.
Because for so long, you've beaten yourself up for becoming someone who disappoints the only pair of hands that never rejoice.
What about the child?
You let him suffer.
You starved him of softness.
You hold yourself.
Firmly.
In hopes that through your skin, you can touch his, reach across time and feel the version of yourself that needed warmth.
Part VI:
You look again.
And this time, you see the child, the one who failed.
The one who rose.
The one who hurt you just by existing.
And you wonder:
Was it him I saw all this time? Or was it me?
You realise it wasn't him you were angry at.
You were angry at the parts of yourself you buried.
And he just happened to wear them.
You thought you were pulling him down.
You were projecting.
It was always your reflection you were dragging through the dirt.
Part VII
But it's not just you watching him.
He watches you too.
He feels the flicker of joy you try to swallow when he stumbles.
He senses the judgment you pretend isn't there.
He also notices the quiet, when your mind leaves your body and your eyes glaze over.
That's when he feels closest to you.
Because that's when he knows you're like him.
He knows.
He's always known.
That though you watch each other,
No one is really looking.
