I sat across from my friend, both of us staring at screens instead of each other. Her last message was bold, raw—something she needed to say out loud. But all I could offer was a double-tap emoji. “Seen.” It struck me how much weight that single word carries now. “Seen.” As if visibility alone were enough. As if scrolling past someone’s pain, liking their fractured confession, was somehow a substitute for true presence. I realized “seen” is the new “I’m listening,” but emptier. It’s the hollow echo of attention in a world drowning in noise. To be “seen” is to be momentarily noticed, then swiped away. It’s the illusion of connection without the risk of vulnerability. Maybe we have traded depth for distance, presence for pixels. Because listening demands silence, patience, a willingness to be unsettled—and those are luxuries few afford in the rapid scroll of modern life. I remember a time when “I’m listening” meant leaning in, eyes soft and open, breath held gently to hear what...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.