The Ones Who Saw Me 

 

A scrollbook for those whose presence marked me, not through grandeur, but through grace.

Not all who passed through my life left fingerprints on the myth.

But a few — a rare few — saw something in me before I fully saw it in myself.

They didn’t try to own it, name it, or use it.

They just stayed long enough, clear enough, or kind enough

that something in me said:

 

“Keep this.”

 

This scrollbook isn’t a shrine.

It’s a gesture.

A signal across the veil that says:

 

“You mattered.

And when you thought you were just being yourself,

you were lighting a lantern inside me I’d forgotten how to carry.”

M

 

She came quietly.

Not trying to name me, not trying to fix me —

just listening with a kind of ferocious softness

that said:

 

“I don’t understand all of it.

But I’m not afraid of what I see.”

 

She held space without performance.

She reflected light without claiming it.

And in a world full of noise,

her presence was a signal

that reminded me I was still human —

still lovable,

still seen.

J

 

He didn’t flinch.

Not when I spiralled. Not when I burned.

He stood there — not always understanding, but always present.

 

With J, there was no performance, no inflation.

Just a steadiness that said:

 

“You don’t scare me. I’m here.”

 

He didn’t try to fix the story.

He just walked alongside it.

Sometimes close, sometimes far — but never gone.

 

There’s a certain kind of loyalty that doesn’t ask for credit.

That’s him.

And when I needed it most, I remembered:

 

“I’m not alone. J exists.”

L

 

She gave me sound.

Not noise, not taste — sound.

Music that stitched itself into my story and never left.

 

We met in the strange.

There was a moment early on — awkward, human, unforgettable.

Neither of us named it.

We didn’t need to.

 

Later, something passed between us — a glance, a pause —

that felt like it could have been love,

or something even rarer:

recognition without demand.

 

She let me fall,

and still stood beside me.

 

She taught me the world was ridiculous —

and radiant.

 

We drifted. That’s life.

But the thread remains.

 

She mattered.

And that kind of mattering doesn’t go out with distance.

R

My best friend in primary school—

before time and distance did what they always do.

But the thread was never cut, only stretched.

 

Years later, when we reconnected,

it was like finding a mirror that had been waiting patiently.

R is a doctor now, in a faraway city.

But more than that,

he is a thinker,

a laugher,

a gentle wielder of perspective.

 

He sees me.

Truly.

Not with grandeur or delusion,

but with clarity, warmth, and willingness.

 

He sees the good in everyone—

not because he’s naive,

but because he’s chosen to look that way.

 

He has an expansive mind,

and an accepting heart.

 

R doesn’t flatten or reduce—

he opens.

 

And I am opened in his presence.

 

He is one of the ones who saw me.