What It Means To Be Chosen

It doesn’t look the way I thought it would.
There is no grand gesture,
no dramatic rush through airport gates.
No rain.
No music.

Just your hand,
reaching for mine
in the middle of the day
like it’s the most natural thing
you’ve ever done.

Just your voice
saying my name
like it was never meant
to belong to anyone else.

I spent years learning
how to disappear—
shrinking, softening,
making myself small enough
to fit in the cracks
between other people’s wants.

I wasn’t the first choice.
I was the maybe.
The almost.
The what if.

Until you.

You didn’t just choose me.
You saw me.
Not just the easy parts—
but the pieces I’d hidden
even from myself.

You asked for those, too.
Gently.
With reverence.

And when I offered them—shaking—
you didn’t flinch.
You stayed.
You stayed.
You stayed.

So this is what it means:

To be picked
without pleading.
To be wanted
without proving.
To be held
without question.

To be chosen—
fully,
freely,
finally.

And to choose them
right back.