The Curse of Seeing Too Much.

There’s a certain kind of loneliness that comes with being observant. It’s not the absence of people, nor is it about being physically alone. It’s the solitude of knowing too much—of seeing the cracks before they turn into fractures, of hearing the weight in someone’s silence before they even realize they have nothing left to say.

I wish I could unsee the little things: the hesitation in their voice, the way their eyes dart away for just a second longer than before, the shift in their laughter—once effortless, now slightly strained. I notice the way their text responses become shorter, the way they stop saying my name in conversations, the way they hold their phone a little closer to their chest, as if guarding secrets they once shared so freely.

I catch the frown they don’t even know they made, the coldness that seeps into their tone despite their best attempts to mask it, the way their smile doesn’t quite reach their eyes anymore. I pick up on the things left unsaid, the unfinished sentences, the half-hearted reassurances, the ‘maybes’ that really mean ‘no.’

And the worst part? They think I don’t notice. They think they’re fooling me, that I don’t see the distance growing, that I don’t feel the shift in energy. But I do. I always do.

Being observant isn’t a gift. It’s a curse. Because when you see too much, you can never unsee it. You carry the weight of knowing when things start falling apart, long before anyone else does. You live with the ache of pretending you don’t notice, because calling it out won’t change the inevitable. And maybe, just maybe, you wish you could be the person who is blissfully unaware, instead of the one who sees it all and suffers in silence.