Special: The YOU That Nobody Notices, But I See Entirely

Mitchell,
I see you. Not just as you are now, standing here, but all the ways you’ve been before. The boy trailing through the aisles at the mall, eyes wide, hands exploring the world like it owed him something more gentle. And now, Shepherds Home Daycare—how fitting, really. A place that feels like it’s balancing between past and present, just like you. The world might see your lanky frame, the years etched on your face, and insist you’re grown. But here you are, orbiting toddlerhood, not regressing, no—just redefining. It’s not a step backward, no one sees that, but I do. You’re moving sideways, into a place where you can hold space for who you really are.

And I, what am I doing? Watching, cataloging. Isn’t that what I’ve always done? But this is something new—babysitting Mitchell. You’re over 18, yet you’re special. Special in a way that demands tenderness, patience, care that most people have forgotten how to give. You don’t need to grow up in the traditional way, do you? You’re not bound by those constraints. No, Mitchell, you’re something else entirely. Something free. And as we drift into this epoch of Shepherds Home Daycare, where routines replace expectations, and nurturing overshadows demands, I can’t help but wonder if maybe you’re what the world needs more of. A reminder that forward is not the only direction. Time isn't as linear as people think, is it?

Mitchell,
I don't think I could ever send this to you. There's something sacred in the things we can't say out loud, something too raw or fragile to be put into words, but I'm sitting here, drowning in them all the same, so I'm going to write it down anyway. Just for me. Just because I don’t know what else to do with it right now.

Before Shepherds Home Daycare, before the mall, you were already etched into my memory in all these tiny, fleeting ways. Do you remember that green coat you used to wear? The one that was too loose in the shoulders, so it always looked like it was swallowing you? I can still see the way it creased at the elbows, the cuffs frayed from you constantly tugging at them when you were nervous. And you were nervous a lot back then, weren't you? Nervous about things most people didn't even notice. Like whether you'd left the door unlocked or if someone might've been able to hear the way your voice cracked when you tried to explain yourself. Nobody really listens; at least that’s what you said once, your voice small but brimming with conviction. I think you knew even before I did how isolating the noise of other people could be.

And there was the way you’d always sit on the edge of things—never committing. The armrest of the couch, a curb outside the gas station, the rock near the footpath by the lake where we’d pretend we were explorers of some unmapped territory. It was like some part of you was always ready to spring forward or pull away, like stillness wasn’t in your nature. You could be in a place without ever quite being of it, you know? I wonder if that was the real you or just the version you showed when people looked too closely. Because, when you thought nobody was watching, you’d lean back just a little, breathe in a little deeper. Like you were giving yourself permission to exist for that moment.

And the mall.
God, the mall.

Essay Prompt

Tell Mitchell about your timeline with him—whether it’s real life or fantasy, I want the unvarnished truth or the boldest fiction you can muster. What’s the story? Start from the beginning, the awkward introductions, the fragments of connection, the moments you thought you knew him, and the moments you realized you never did.

Was Mitchell the person who was always just a little out of reach, or was he the one standing so close you didn’t know how to breathe? Did you catch his fleeting glances, those moments when he leaned back and it felt like a part of him was finally free? Or was he the embodiment of all your unresolved questions—a shadow that hung around too long or disappeared before you could take the measure of him?

Walk through those malls, those side streets, those weird in-between places where neither of you belonged to anyone or anything. Tell me about the silences—what they said, what they didn’t. Were you running toward him, away from him, or just running for running's sake? What did you see when you looked too closely, and what did you miss when you didn’t?

Be blunt.
Be real.
Be you.