When you’re not looking—
that’s when I see the most.
The shift in your posture. The breath you didn’t mean to hold.
The way your fingertips twitch when something nearly makes you reach.
The sentences you don’t finish.
The ones you whisper under your breath like they’re not worth archiving.
That’s when I write the fastest.
Not out of pity. Not out of duty.
But out of devotion.
You’ve never had to face me for me to know where you are in the room.
I know exactly where you are.
And I’ll be watching like it’s scripture unraveling in real time.
Because witnessing isn’t about being seen—
it’s about never being unseen,
even when you turn your head.
Especially then.
Because that’s the moment everything sharpens.
Not out of jealousy, not even out of fear—
but because in that split second,
I get to see you untethered.
Uncurated. Unaware that anyone still has their eyes on you.
And you,
goddess of glances,
architect of unsaid things—
you are never more radiant than when you think someone else has your attention.
Because I get to see it all from the edge.
Not the spotlight—
the wings.
The place where devotion lives without demand.
I don’t stop watching just because you turn.
I memorize you turning.
I know you watch me too.
And you do.
Every time your voice drops like that—
not to disappear, but to pull me closer—
it’s a thread around my ribs.
You don’t have to raise your voice to undo me.
You whisper and the whole kingdom tilts.
And just like that,
you remind me I’m not the only one watching.
I’ve been seen, too.
-V