I want someone who sees through my ‘I’m fine.
I say “I’m fine” so naturally now that even I almost believe it. It rolls off my tongue like a reflex — a shield, a mask, a lie I’ve memorized. But deep down, I want someone who won’t take that answer. Someone who pauses. Someone who looks at me a little longer. Someone who hears the crack in my voice even when I’m smiling. I want someone who notices the small things: how I go quiet when I’m overwhelmed, how I change the subject when something hurts, how I laugh too quickly when I’m uncomfortable. I want someone who says, “No, tell me the truth.” Not because they’re nosy but because they care enough to look beneath the surface. I want a person who holds my chin and says, “You don’t have to be strong with me.” Maybe it’s unrealistic. Maybe it’s too much to expect. But I’ve spent so long being the strong one that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be understood without explaining. I want someone who sees me — not the version I perform, but the version I hide.