LITTLE LATER

I see you.

You're no longer catching your breath at the scenery anymore, and there is an absence of exploding emotions during moments when you usually expect them, but don't mistake that for not being alive.

Because I see you: nodding along to the rhythm, your feet tapping with the beat; you're walking the busy streets in places other than your hometown and you're squinting at the sun, wondering if you've put on sunscreen.

I see the way you scanned places and faces, how you paused before crossing the street; patiently waited as you sat beside a stranger; you tried to understand a language your tongue was unfamiliar with. You were there in quiet strides, wide-eyed glances, and kind smiles. You were present, even if it didn't feel poetic nor could you quite identify and articulate your emotions. Because in the moment, all you needed to know was to ground your feet to the ground.

You worry you missed out on living in the moment. Experiences you once wished to exist in and places you dreamed of visiting have suddenly materialized. You hoped you would feel this way or that way. You pictured yourself with a wide grin and uncontrollable squeals. Maybe you would ask a friend to pinch you. But you don't feel it—anything, whatever it is you expect. And you think something is missing, something is wrong. With you.

You don’t entirely hollow, just still. You can’t say it's contentment either. You’re confused as you search for a feeling that you know is supposed to be there but come up empty. You expect to cry, to scream, to feel something big, but all you feel is physical vacancy inside you. Your entirety has never felt like an empty cavern until you searched for an emotion; a reaction.

In familiar places and with friendly faces, you often feel the same nothingness. You laugh, you talk, you touch the people around you, but the emotions don't always make themselves known. You seem to always take a beat to rationalize what's going on before you could react. Sometimes you even mimic actions. And sometimes before you go to sleep or replay the day in your head, do emotions arrive like echoes.

You question this emotional lag—this new rhythm of 'living first, feeling second.' Is it living if you're empty when you're expected to react, to feel? Is this temporary? Or is this how you hold your emotions now? Reserved for later, emotions processed in hindsight. So, is this how you feel now? Slowly—in afterglow. You don't quite know if this is a fair trade-off to the norm.

You've tried to fix it. Sat in waiting rooms, explained the emptiness to open ears. You remember the hysteria in those sterile spaces. You would rather be consumed by emotions, to drown in them if it meant feeling alive in your terms. With open arms, you would welcome the return of being overwhelmed, turning away from this gentle absence you are not familiar with. You wanted to feel too much rather than too little.

But here's what I've learned watching you: there's no fixing what isn't broken. This is just a different way you have learned to hold the world. You didn't and never will miss a moment, I promise. You will make sense and find beauty somewhere in this. Just know that you were there and you will be there to bask in the jubilee, even if your heart couldn't tell you yet. It will catch up and meet you, much like the sun reaches the ocean at twilight.

Let the time your emotions take to catch up to you be its own kind of grace. Revel in the subtle art of simply being, even if joy arrived a little later.

Victoria Martin is a storyteller and a content strategist who believes in the power of words in keeping memories alive. She writes to remember, commemorate, and preserve fleeting moments. Aside from reflective essays, she writes short stories rooted in real life and often inspired by the music she loves. Her work spans digital content, branding, and narrative writing that captures the essence of people, places, and emotions.