To Be Loved Is to Be Seen

It was last summer, 2 a.m., in front of a crowded bar in Rome. The kind of place where the streets are loud with laughter, the air smells faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap cocktails, and everyone looks like they belong in a coming-of-age movie. He was someone I’d met earlier that night—a stranger, really—but there was something about him that made me feel at ease. Like the kind of person you could say too much to and not regret it later.

We’d wandered outside for air, talking in the way people do when the night feels endless and a little too warm. I started rambling, because that’s what I do when I feel safe. I told him about The Dreamers by Bertolucci, how its messy, visceral depiction of love and art felt like a reflection of all the contradictions I carried. I went on about Frank Ocean’s Blonde—how Pink + White made me feel weightless and Ivy made me ache. I mentioned Simon & Garfunkel, Tyler, The Creator, Foucault, even Audre Lorde. My passions spilled out of me, unfiltered, like I was throwing pieces of myself into the air to see if they would land.

He was quiet as I spoke, occasionally glancing at his phone. At first, I thought he was distracted, maybe just politely waiting for me to finish. It’s something you learn to expect when you care about obscure things, when your idea of a love language is explaining why a film made in 2003 feels like home or why a lyric written decades ago still keeps you up at night.

Finally, I stopped and asked, “Am I boring you?”—half-laughing, half-bracing myself for the answer. He looked up, surprised, and turned his phone toward me. On the screen was a list of everything I’d mentioned: Bertolucci, Frank Ocean, Lorde, Foucault. Even The Only Living Boy in New York by Simon & Garfunkel.

“I didn’t want to forget,” he said, almost shyly. “I want to look these up later.”

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment. Frank Ocean’s words from “Ivy” echoed in my mind: Love’s not enough, it fades and changes.”

And yet, what he did in that moment felt like love—love in the way it should be. Not the kind that shouts its presence or demands attention, but the kind that listens, pays attention, and says, I see you. I see what matters to you.

To be loved, I realized, isn’t just about being wanted or admired. It’s about effort. It’s someone taking the time to step into your world, to notice the small things that make you who you are. It’s someone hearing you talk about Foucault and thinking, What does this mean to you? It’s someone writing down a film title because they want to see what you see, even if just for a moment.

It’s so easy to feel invisible, even when you’re surrounded by people. Most of us walk through life waiting for someone to look past the surface, past the small talk, and truly notice us. And when it happens—when someone makes the effort to see you—it feels like magic.

He didn’t have to take notes. He could’ve nodded politely and let my words dissolve into the night, as so many conversations do. But he didn’t. And it wasn’t about the books or the music; it was about what they represented. It was about someone deciding that the things I loved were worth loving too, simply because they were a part of me.

Love, I’ve learned, isn’t about grand gestures or sweeping declarations. It’s in the details. It’s someone taking the time to know your world, even the obscure corners of it. It’s the quiet effort to meet you where you are and say, Teach me what makes you, you.

That night in Rome didn’t end in romance, and maybe that’s what made it even more meaningful. It wasn’t about a love story; it was about a moment of connection. A reminder that being loved isn’t about being understood perfectly, but about someone trying. About someone saying, I don’t know this part of you yet, but I want to.

I don’t know if he ever looked up the things he wrote down, and maybe it doesn’t matter. What matters is that, for one fleeting moment in the middle of a Roman summer, someone made the effort to see me fully.

And maybe that’s all we can hope for: someone who pays attention. Someone who notices. Someone who, even if just for a moment, chooses to see us in all our messy, complicated glory. Because to be loved, truly loved, is to be seen. And that is enough.