Full Moon

I used to believe I was the invisible one, unwanted, unseen, undesired.

But the truth is, I was the one who hadn’t yet learned how to want myself. How to see myself. How to desire myself without shame.

And now, memories come back in full, vivid colour, not as longing, but as proof. Proof that everything I thought I lacked had always been around me. I just couldn’t see it. Because I couldn’t hold it.

Because I couldn’t yet hold me.

---

Can you love a moment for what it gave you without needing to go back to it?

Can you love the way someone saw you, not keep it alive but to honour the way it brought you back to yourself?

Can you carry it within you like a piece of your own magic reflected back even if you didn’t recognise it at the time?

There was something so magical about those August days before I left,

so much unfolding inside and around me.

I didn’t know it then, but he was inevitable.

And I ran, like I always used to.

Never fully surrendering to the moment,

no matter how long I had dreamt of it.

It all came to a head at the beach.

Old boyfriends, new distractions.

Movie sets. Highschool crushes.

A pregnancy scare I was quietly carrying.

Anxiety tangled with excitement for a new life,

and the silent grief for the world I was about to leave behind.

Shiny new people.

Surface-level lust.

The kind that felt safe because it never went deep.

Because it didn’t ask me to stay.

That was the last summer I’d ever call that place home.

And somehow, in the chaos of all of it, he reappeared

After I pushed him away before I ever let him close.

Picked fights because I didn’t know how to hold what I wanted

I needed him gone because he looked straight at me.

Because when someone really saw me

my system would panic.

I’d crave it.

Beg for it in silence.

And the moment it arrived, I’d bolt.

Because I couldn’t bear to be seen in my stillness

holding the weight of the belief that I was too much

and never enough,

all at once.

I needed distance to feel safe.

And closeness to feel alive.

We ran into each other boarding the night train.

And it was like nothing had ever happened.

Like no time had passed.

He was always there.

Always showing up.

Always offering himself,

even when I met his presence with silence, storms or erratic fire.

Somehow, he saw past it all.

Past my teenage tantrums.

Past the chaos I created

because the quiet felt too loud.

He was the only one I let stay.

Unknowingly, because otherwise? Danger.

He was the one who saw me.

The one my body pushed away

because he saw too much

but my soul pulled closer because he saw

everything.

I don’t remember much from those days.

The joy was buried beneath the fear,

the fear of being seen,

the shame of wanting too much,

the ache of believing I wasn’t enough.

I whispered, come get me,

then screamed, get away from me.

I’ve known him for years but

I never really knew him.

Couldn’t tell you his favourite food,

his hobbies,

his beliefs.

But I knew who he was.

I felt that.

Still do.

I didn’t let myself feel what it’s like

to finally receive what I wanted,

what I longed for,

what I thought I didn’t deserve.

But I know what those days felt like for him.

I know it in the way he chose his words

extracted from pure presence,

placed like offerings,

his frequency embedded into a Word doc.

One I couldn’t read at the time.

Couldn’t feel through the noise of my own survival.

Because he wasn’t describing a moment,

He was describing me.

And now, all these years later,

Years that feel like lifetimes,

I finally recognise the girl he saw

because I finally see her too.

I understand it now.

Because I’ve discovered the language

I’ve always held, but never heard.

My soul language.

The one I live in now.

The one I write in.

The one I am.

And I remember.

Exactly how it felt back then.

But most importantly,

I remember who I am.

---

It was never really about him. But he was someone special, for no reason and every reason. There was always a quiet secret between us. One I felt, but never let myself live inside.

And maybe that's the whole point. Maybe life leaves us these breadcrumbs, these soft mirrors to remind us who we've always been when we're finally ready to see it.

This isn’t a story about a love interrupted. It’s about returning to power.

Because the truth is, everything I thought was missing, was only waiting for me to become the one who could finally receive it.