Tag: relationships

When Nobody’s Watching

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On the kind of truth that doesn’t need an audience.

I’ve always felt that people who do things “as a matter of principle” are full of it. Too often, they cling to their moral code like a lifeboat, even when the water’s shallow enough to stand. I don’t think most of them mean harm — they just get caught up in being right, afraid to face the possibility that they might be wrong. It’s human nature. We mistake conviction for truth because it’s easier than questioning ourselves.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that all our so-called principles are built on experience — the good, the bad, and the ones that broke us open. What we value changes. What once mattered deeply starts to fade. Acceptance doesn’t come easy; denial usually wins the first few rounds.

Over time, I stopped pretending I needed a long list of virtues to define me. I stripped it down to what felt real — two principles that anchor everything else: honesty and integrity.

Honesty keeps me from lying to myself, especially when self-deception would be easier.
Integrity keeps me from betraying who I say I am, even when it costs me something to stay true.

Everything else — compassion, respect, perseverance — grows from those two. I’ve found that when I hold to them, I don’t need much else. It’s simple, but it’s not easy.

I recall people talking about staying up with the times — as if evolution meant trading in your soul for a newer model. But some things shouldn’t change. Things like being true to yourself and paying attention to what actually matters — the choices, the people, and the moments that leave fingerprints on the rest of your life, whether you notice them or not.

I still hear my Madre’s voice when I start to drift:

“You know the difference between right and wrong. No one has to teach you. But I will remind you from time to time.”

That line stuck with me. Maybe because she was right — deep down, we all know. Life just tries to talk us out of it.

Some people call it character, others call it discipline. I just call it doing what’s right when nobody’s watching. The kind of thing you don’t brag about, because if you have to, it probably doesn’t count.

Daily writing prompt
What principles define how you live?
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Lessons in Disappearance

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for those who know what it’s like to be visible but not believed

Every day is another lesson in invisibility.
Not the kind you choose, not the soft fade of a disappearing act.
This is the kind handed down in glances that slide past you.
In doors that stay closed just a second longer when you’re approaching.
In the space you leave behind when you’re gone, and no one notices the shape of your absence.

You become fluent in the language of indifference.
You learn the weight of unasked questions.
You memorize the way people say “I didn’t see you there” like it’s a kindness,
instead of an indictment.

There is a peculiar violence in being overlooked.
Not bruised. Not broken. Just… reduced.
Down to skin, down to stereotype, down to background noise.
They don’t mean to erase you—
and somehow, that makes it worse.

They’ll say you’re quiet.
You’ll wonder if they’ve ever actually listened.

You wear shame like a second skin.
Not because you earned it,
but because somewhere along the way,
someone handed it to you like inheritance
and you forgot how to put it down.

You stand still in a world built to move around you—
fast, loud, full of curated meaning.
And you begin to question:

Is there something wrong with me, or is there something wrong with this lens that always finds me blurred?

You’ve learned to map your pain in silence.
Each breath is a kind of protest.
Each blink a refusal to disappear entirely.

There are veins beneath your skin that look like lightning—
not because you are struck,
but because you are always just about to burn.

And yet you don’t.
Not fully.

You endure.
Not in glory. Not with applause.
But with defiance.
The quiet kind.
The kind that goes unnoticed until someone says:

“I didn’t realize you were carrying that much.”

And you smile without smiling,
because you know the truth:

You were always carrying that much.
They just never asked to know.

Strategic Withdrawal

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Daily writing prompt
What makes you nervous?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE – FICTION

I never meant for things to turn out like this. Not that I had a plan—God forbid I be that organized. Life just… happened. Like a lopsided bundt cake with all the chocolate chips sunk to the bottom. Turns out you’re supposed to mix them into the batter. Would’ve been good to know before I tried to impress Rachel Largo—the most beautiful girl in three counties, maybe the entire eastern seaboard under the right lighting.

I didn’t check the expiration dates either. The cake tasted like regret and powdered disappointment. Rachel smiled and said it was “very creative,” which is high school girl code for this is awful, but I admire the attempt. She took one bite, chewed like she was processing trauma, and excused herself to “call her mom”—translation: you’ll never see me again.

I stood there in my mom’s kitchen, holding a dented bundt pan, wondering what exactly had led me to that moment. And I realized maybe I was just that guy. Not the one who gets the girl—just the one who learns not to bake without instructions.

Most of my life’s been like that. Spent in service to others. Not because I’m noble. I wasn’t raised by monks. No lightning bolt of altruism hit me over a bowl of cereal. If anything, I swore I wouldn’t end up outside a convenience store with a paper bag and a cigarette, crashing on my mother’s couch.

Spoiler: I did. More than once.

But service? That just kind of… happened. One favor turned into another. One crisis became two. Suddenly people were looking at me like I had answers. Like I was someone you could lean on. A functional adult. Which was optimistic, honestly.

Do I regret it? No. Do I feel good about it? Also no. I made mistakes—some loud and theatrical, others slow and corrosive. The loud ones make for stories. The quiet ones wear you down. And despite my best efforts and my many failures—usually delivered in the same week—it all still feels like it adds up to… nothing.

And that’s the part that really sticks. I might be the only one who thinks that. Everyone else moved on. I’m still here, counting ghosts.

I was in the Philly airport once when I saw her. The girl in uniform. Back then we traveled in dress—polished boots, pressed collars, trying to look like recruitment posters. She had that look: sharp, composed, untouchable. Every guy nearby tried to catch her attention. I didn’t bother. I wasn’t nervous—I was realistic. Women like her didn’t talk to guys like me. We carried bags. Maybe threw a punch if needed. But conversation? That wasn’t in the playbook.

Then the flight got canceled.

Instead of sleeping on a chair under fluorescent lights, they put us up in a hotel. Which meant one thing: party. Some guy who needed attention like oxygen threw a room bash together. I wasn’t old enough to buy beer, but I’d been doing it long enough to qualify as a supplier. I grabbed a few six-packs and slipped outside to the pool, which was closed for the season—quiet, gated, empty.

That’s where she found me.

Out of uniform, hoodie up, hair tied back. She looked more real than before. She spotted me, gave a half-smile, and walked over.

“You hiding too?” she asked.

“Strategic withdrawal,” I said.

She laughed. Sat down next to me. I handed her a beer.

We didn’t talk about much—music, food, home. No names. No stories. Just two strangers in the quiet, trading small things. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like background noise. I felt seen.

That should’ve been it. A memory, sealed off and fading. But a few years later, after deployment, I was sitting on an exam table at the clinic, in a paper gown, waiting for some overworked doc to clear me.

The door opened.

Rachel walked in.

Yes, that Rachel. Bundt cake Rachel.

And behind her? The nurse?

The girl from the pool.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, panic, or check if I was still in the desert hallucinating. Rachel was flipping through my chart. The nurse was wrapping a cuff around my arm like this was just another Tuesday.

And then she asked, casually, “How’ve you been sleeping?”

Like we hadn’t shared a beer under dead stars. Like we hadn’t sat together in silence while the world spun out behind us.

I opened my mouth. Lied like I’d been trained to.

“Sleeping fine,” I said.

But the truth?

I would never sleep again.

Truth be Told…

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Prose – Introspective

Truth be told, it was never about going to some show. It was about seeing your gorgeous smile and feeling those arms wrapped around me. It’s been a long couple of weeks, and they feel so good. I want to scream in the anguish of missing them, missing you, but these lips will never utter a word.

In that moment, I will let my guard down and allow the warmth of you to soothe me.

In that moment, I forget about being cool and allow myself to enjoy the feeling of holding a beautiful woman in my arms. I will be cognizant of the fact that she is allowing herself to be held.

Forgive me for being mushy, but I thought we were past the greasy kid’s stuff, and we were somewhere in the middle of something. I’m not sure where something is, not this, seriously?

Perhaps, we should do what grown folks do?

Grown folks sit down and have a conversation about the things that matter to one another. Whether or not we want to hear what is being said. We sit there and allow each other to voice our concerns until all that remains are long looks and easy smiles.

~thank you for reading~