There’s a version of me that only comes out when I feel safe. She’s softer. Quieter. Laughs without scanning the room. Speaks without second-guessing. She doesn’t measure her words or shrink her feelings to fit someone else’s comfort. She doesn’t brace for the cold silence that sometimes follows honesty. She trusts that she’s allowed to be whole, not just tolerated in pieces.

He met her once. Briefly. Maybe on a night when the world felt light and I forgot to be guarded. When something about the way he looked at me made me think I could finally exhale. I let her speak. I let her feel. I let her hope. And in that moment, I think he thought that version of me was effortless. He didn’t realize how many versions had to be peeled away just for her to show up. How much unlearning it took for me to believe I could be safe inside someone else’s presence.

But safety isn’t just about how someone treats you when things are easy. It’s how they hold you when you start to unfold. When you stop performing and start telling the truth. When you cry a little louder or care a little deeper than they expected. That’s where most people disappear. That’s where she retreats.

He met her once, and I don’t think he realized how rare she was. Not rare like delicate. Rare like hard-earned. Like someone who’s been through enough to know what it costs to come undone in front of the wrong person. And now, she only comes out when she knows she won’t have to put herself back together alone.