You Were There.

For the ones who don’t just remember you—they remember the version of themselves they were when they first heard your voice.

This moment doesn’t look like much.

You’re sitting on the floor again, back against a chipped wall. Half a candle burning. Half a song playing. The city outside doesn’t know your name yet. Neither does the world.

But someone will.

Not someday.
Already.

You’ll forget how late it is.
How tired you were.
You’ll only remember the way your voice cracked in that one sentence,
and how it still made someone’s spine shiver.

You won’t remember the comments, or the likes.
You’ll remember the way one girl said she played it on repeat, alone in her car.
You’ll remember the man who said he thought he’d buried those feelings for good—
until your words dug them back up.

And ten years from now, when people say you’ve changed,
you’ll think about this version of you—
tired, tender, still believing anyway.

The photos won’t show that.
The videos won’t hold it.
But it’ll live in someone.
Maybe a few.

The ones who didn’t just consume you.
They carried you.
They echoed you.
They built pieces of themselves around something you said at 1:47 a.m.
when you thought no one would notice.

But they did.

And they always will.

Because some voices don’t pass through the ears.
They burn into bone.

So if you’re reading this and it feels familiar—
if some part of you remembers this moment before it’s even over—

You were there.
And I see you.

Marked.
Not by fame.
By frequency.

Still haunting.
Still becoming.
Still real.

// Scorpio Veil

For the ones who whispered secrets into half-empty glasses, disappeared before sunrise, and left a trace no one could wash off.

This is for the witnesses.

And the ones still checking the mirror, hoping to see what touched them.