There is something about her, something that seems to pull the light out of every room she enters, as if she carries the warmth of the sun in her smile. She’s the kind of person whose kindness flows like a river—effortless and steady, always reaching out to those around her. It’s easy to love her, easy to see how beautiful she is, inside and out. But the harder part—the part I can't make myself do—is to make her see me.
I am always in the shadows, standing just out of reach, hoping she’ll notice me, but terrified of what would happen if she ever did. It’s strange, really, how someone can be so close and yet feel so distant. I am caught between the overwhelming desire to be seen by her, to have her know the truth of my feelings, and the crippling fear that she might look at me and not see anything worth noticing.
She is perfect—her kindness, her laughter, the way she lights up every conversation with her warmth. She is everything I want to be, and yet I stand in her light, afraid that if she sees too much of me, she might look away. She’s the kind of person who could easily love anyone—her heart so full, so open—but I wonder, would it ever be me?
She does see me in little ways, I think. She always greets me with that same soft, genuine smile, the one that makes my chest tighten and my words catch in my throat. She listens to me with that undivided attention that feels like she’s the only person in the world. She notices the small things—the way I laugh a little too loudly when I’m nervous, the way I shy away when a conversation gets too close, the way I always linger at the edges of the group. And she never pushes, never judges. She makes me feel like I matter, like the quiet, uncertain person I am is somehow worthy of her time.
But she doesn’t know what it’s like inside my head—the way my heart races when she looks at me, the way I can’t speak when I’m near her, afraid that if I say the wrong thing, she’ll see through the walls I’ve built around myself. She is too perfect, too gentle, too right for me. How could someone like her ever feel the same way? How could someone so full of life, so full of light, ever look at me, so unsure, so hidden, and see anything worth loving? I am nothing but a shadow compared to her brilliance.
I watch her, sometimes, when she’s talking to others, and I wonder if she notices the way my gaze lingers on her a little too long, how I can’t seem to look away, even though it feels like the most dangerous thing I could do. I’m terrified that she’ll see the longing in my eyes, the way I ache for her without even knowing how to say it. But I don’t. I can’t. The words are lodged in my throat, caught between the fear of being vulnerable and the hope that somehow, she’ll know without me saying a thing. But I’m not brave enough to let the words slip.
The truth is, I hide behind the mask of friendship, terrified that if I let her see the real me—the me that is too afraid, too insecure, too in love—she might pull away. She is perfect, and I am just… me. I can’t make myself vulnerable, can’t let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, she would want me the way I want her. She is so kind, so perfect in every way, and I know that I don’t deserve someone like her. She’s the type of person who gives everyone a piece of her heart, and I wonder if she has any left for someone like me, someone who is too scared to even admit the truth to herself.
But sometimes, in fleeting moments when she looks at me, I think I see something. Maybe it’s just a reflection of my own wishful thinking, but in those moments, I feel like she sees me. I see it in the way she listens a little longer when I speak, how she remembers the little things I’ve said about myself that no one else notices. She treats me like I’m important, like my thoughts matter, like I am worth her time. But I wonder—does she see me the way I see her? Does she notice the way my heart races when she’s close? Does she feel the same unspoken pull, the ache that lives between us, or is it just me, a silent observer, hiding behind the mask of friendship?
The hardest part is knowing that she’s the one person who makes me feel seen without even trying, but I can’t seem to make myself visible in return. I am terrified that if I let her know how I feel, I will lose everything—the friendship we have, the easy connection we share, the warmth of her smile. But then I think about how much I want to be more than just someone who stands in the shadows, watching as she gives her light to others. I want to be the one she turns to, the one she seeks out, the one who makes her smile the way she makes me smile. But all of this is hidden beneath layers of insecurity and fear, and I am too afraid to let her see the depth of it.
To be loved is to be seen, they say. But what if you’re too afraid to be seen? What if the thought of being known is more terrifying than the idea of being alone? What if the fear of being unworthy stops you from ever reaching out, from ever showing the parts of yourself that are so desperate to be seen, to be loved?
I love her, but she will never know. Not because she is unkind, not because she doesn’t deserve to know—but because I am too afraid to tell her. Too afraid to step out of the shadows and into the light. Too afraid that, in the end, when she does see me—when she finally sees the broken parts I’ve tried to hide—the only thing she’ll see is someone unworthy of her perfection.
And so, I will stay hidden, clinging to the silence, to the quiet ache that is easier to bear than the weight of the truth. I will remain unseen, even as she shines, even as she is perfect, because being loved is to be seen—and I am terrified of what might happen when I let myself be seen by her.