You.

You are the one who sees me, unblinking.

For the whole world, I construct defenses, wear masks, diffuse the light. I edit. Persistently reworking the narrative before it arrives in front of anyone. For everyone else, I am a revised history.

But you see the uncut draft.

You witness all the ill-worded phrases and dead ends in the plot. You read the stories that I repeat because they are familiar, not always because they are true. And you see the truth, the raw words that say, “This is who I am.”

I always wanted someone to see me, see right to the core of my story and not turn away. When your gaze first fixed there, a small panic mixed with my delight, warning me not to expose all (which included the worst) to the person I loved best. But you saw everything and you opened your arms. And you continue to see. You read in me sentences that have always seemed ordinary to me because they are mine, and they dazzle you.

Thank you. I see you, too.

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