Seen.

The woman took a sip of her wine, then set the glass down carefully. Her eyes lingered on the man for a moment before she asked, "Why do you think two people get married?"

The man raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the sudden weight of her question. He thought for a moment, then shrugged lightly. "Passion," he said, with a faint, almost sheepish smile.

She shook her head, her expression soft but certain. "No," she said simply.

"No?" he repeated, leaning forward slightly, intrigued by her certainty. "That’s interesting. I would’ve taken you for a romantic. So, why then?"

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Her voice, when she spoke, was steady, but there was a vulnerability in it too, as if she were revealing something deeply personal. "Because we need a witness to our lives," she said.

The man tilted his head, his curiosity deepening. "A witness?" he echoed, his tone inviting her to continue.

"Yes," she said, meeting his eyes. "There are billions of people on this planet. What does one life really mean in the grand scheme of things? Without someone to notice, to care, it can feel like nothing we do matters. But in marriage, you’re making a promise. You’re promising to care about everything—the good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things. All of it, all the time, every day. You’re saying, ‘Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness.’"

The man sat back slightly, her words hanging in the air between them like something sacred. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he said nothing, as though he were weighing each of her words. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than before. "That’s… I’ve never thought of it that way. But it makes sense. We all just want to be seen, don’t we?"