I just want someone to stay. That's it. That's the whole thing. I want someone to look at me—all of me, the messy parts, the broken parts, the parts I hide from everyone—and not leave. I want someone to see me cry and not get uncomfortable. Not try to fix it. Not hand me a tissue and change the subject. Just sit there. Just hold space. Just let me fall apart without making it weird. I want someone to text me first for once. To remember something I said. To check on me without me having to break first. To make me feel like I matter instead of just being an option. I want someone to choose me. Not as a backup. Not as a last resort. Not as the person they settle for when their first choice doesn't work out. Actually choose me. Want me. Miss me. I want someone to hold me. The kind of hold that says "I'm not going anywhere" without using words. The kind that feels like home when you forgot what home felt like. The kind that makes you realize how long it's been since you were really touched. I want someone to know me. Not the version I show the world. The real one. The one with fears and failures and dreams I'm too scared to admit. The one who cries in the car and laughs too loud and stays up late worrying about people who don't worry about me. I want someone to love me without conditions. Without me having to earn it. Without me having to perform. Without me having to shrink or shape-shift or become whoever they need just so they'll stay. I want to believe that person exists. That somewhere out there is someone who will look at my mess and not run. Who will hold my darkness and not flinch. Who will stay when staying is hard because leaving would be harder. I want to believe God is that someone. That even when people leave—and they will, some of them—He won't. That even when I'm unlovable, He loves. That even when I doubt, He stays. That even when I can't feel Him, He's still here.