I See You

by Jessica Wheeler

Flash Fiction: The Power of "You" Contest Winner

You Are Failing.

That desperate look in your eyes tells me you already know. I see the tragic truth you try so hard to hide.

It’s in the sag of your shoulders; how you carry yourself like standing is a burden. It’s in the tight set of your jaw, the brittle smile that never quite reaches your eyes.

I’m watching you. I'm standing here—close enough to touch—but you won’t look at me. Your head hangs low, eyes downcast, like eye contact might reveal just how far you’ve fallen. You move as if momentum alone might save you—as if aimless steps might count for something. Every gesture is hesitant, every glance short-lived, as though you’re trying to disappear without making a sound. You are a living apology, and you think you’re hiding it well.

But I see it. I see you. And I hate you for it.

I used to believe in you. I remember your dreams—the weight behind them, the worth in your words. You spoke with purpose. Now, when you talk, your sentences wither before they reach anyone. You second-guess yourself before the words leave your tongue.

When did you stop believing you had anything worth saying?

You mumble half-hearted nothings and call it conversation. You smile on cue, nod along when you don’t care, laugh when you want to scream. You fake it. And you make me sick.

This hollowed, lesser version of you—it’s not just disappointing. It’s unbearable. I can’t ignore it anymore. I won’t. You can’t avoid me forever. Eventually, you will have to face me.

Because I am the only one left.

Your eyes lift now—slowly, reluctantly. Look at me. I dare you.

And you do. You meet my stare, and I feel it hit—an awful, silent understanding.

And I’m sorry.

I am so sorry—for every whisper of cruelty I called honesty. For every doubt I planted and each utterance of criticism. For justifying every ounce of self-hate and for demanding silence. I made you shrink. I told you to disappear, and you listened.

Day after day, I looked at you and saw only what was missing.

But now—now, with our eyes locked, reflecting the same dull ache, the same quiet desperation—I see more.

I press my hand to yours against the cold mirror.

I have been too hard on you for too long.

But I’m still here—you’re still here. And I see you.

You are trying.

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