Sometimes I think about what it means to be seen, the way the sun finds you in a crowded room, or the way someone’s eyes land soft and sure when you least expect it. “Seen and Held by Those Who Remain” sits in my chest like a gentle hum, especially on mornings when the world feels a little too loud.
The other day, in the kitchen after choir, Marcus slid a mug of tea across the counter toward me. He didn’t say anything about the way my voice cracked during the last song, or how I’d been quiet since rehearsal started. He just stood next to me, sipping his own tea and bumping my shoulder with his, a small invitation to breathe. The peppermint steam curled up between us, and for a minute, it felt like the kitchen was the only place in the city.
There was no grand gesture, no big talk about feelings. Just the comfort of someone who knows when you need a little space and when you need a little company. I could feel the ground under my feet again, steady and familiar. Sometimes love is just someone remembering how you take your tea, or standing close enough that you remember you’re not alone.
It’s funny how belonging can slip into a moment so quietly you almost miss it. A hand on your back, a laugh that catches you, a mug of tea that says, “I see you.” That’s enough. That’s more than enough.
There’s a kind of freedom in these small things, in being seen without having to explain yourself. I think I’ll carry that with me today—the warmth of peppermint, the weight of a shoulder, the soft certainty that I’m held right here.