I used to wonder when I would meet someone who stays. Not in spectacle or sudden intensity, but in a manner that does not require constant interpretation.

Someone who is not like weather that arrives unpredictably and leaves without notice before familiarity can take shape.

For a long time I believed that being interesting meant emotional volatility. That connection had to be deciphered, that uncertainty was part of its appeal, that waiting was simply the price of affection.

But time has a way of refining language. It teaches you to distinguish between what is meaningful and what is merely inconsistent.

I have begun to recognize a different kind of presence. It is not demanding, nor does it seek attention through fluctuation. It does not require analysis in order to be understood.

There is something instructive in distance. It clarifies what attention once obscured. It reveals whether a connection is sustained through intention or only through convenience.

I no longer find comfort in spaces where I must question whether I am included or temporarily remembered. I have grown more aware of what it costs to remain in that uncertainty.

What I now notice instead is a steadier form of regard. It does not rely on performance or variation. It persists without needing to be proven repeatedly.

And maybe that is what I am really waiting for.
Not something that pulls me in with confusion,
but something that does not make me question if I am already halfway out the door.