The difference between being wanted and being chosen

There’s a moment, when someone truly sees you—not the persona, not the performance, not the parts you curate carefully for the world—but you.

And instead of recoiling or retreating, they lean in.

That moment came when we were lying there, side by side, your head resting gently against my shoulder, both of us fully clothed and utterly open. The kind of openness that feels braver than nudity. More vulnerable. More real.

You turned to me and asked, almost shyly, “Why me? Why not those women with… you know… curves in all the right places?”

It wasn’t fishing for compliments. It was a question forged from life experience. From watching too many men look past you in search of some adolescent fantasy. From being measured, unfairly, against a standard that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with marketing.

And I remember turning to you—eyes soft, voice steady—and saying, “I don’t want them. Yours is the only body I want.”

No pause. No hesitation. Just truth.

Because that night, your body wasn’t a category. It wasn’t an object to be rated, compared, or assessed.

It was you.

It was the way your shoulder curved into mine like it had always belonged there.

It was the way your fingers reached for mine, not with urgency, but with familiarity—as if we’d always held hands in some parallel life.

It was the way your laugh settled into my chest like a bird finally choosing where to nest.

There’s a difference, I think, between being wanted and being chosen.

Want is cheap. Common. Fickle.

But being chosen? That’s a whole different alchemy.

You were not the loudest in the room. Not the flashiest. Not the most obviously available.

You were simply her—Ms H. The woman whose quiet strength made me feel safe enough to exhale. The woman whose presence didn’t demand attention, but somehow held it effortlessly.

And in that moment, when you asked your question, I didn’t fall into poetry or romantic hyperbole.

I just told the truth.

And we kissed again—tentatively, gently, like two people exploring a sacred library with their hands and lips, knowing that the silence between words is where the meaning lives.