The Distance Between Being Seen and Known

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Summary

A quiet, aching story following a young Black man navigating identity, desire, and emotional distance in a world that moves too fast for how slowly he learns to love. Demisexual and often misunderstood, he builds a life of escape through success, status, and detachment—only to realize that proximity without understanding still leaves him unseen. Told through the reflective voice of his later self, almost like a ghost observing his own past, the story traces his unraveling from performance into self-recognition, and the painful, tender return to a truth that doesn’t rush him anymore.

Genre
Lgbtq
Author
Rémy
Status
Ongoing
Chapters
6
Rating
n/a
Age Rating
18+

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 1


THE SHAPE OF ESCAPE

He learns early that being seen is not the same as being understood.

People look at him like they are close to getting it, like they are one sentence away from accuracy. But they never quite land there. Their versions of him are almost right, which somehow feels worse than being completely unknown.

So he adapts.

Quietly at first.

He becomes easy to be around. Easy to assume. Easy to place into sentences that don’t require too much explanation. He learns how to smile in ways that finish conversations before they start asking anything real.

And underneath all of that, something moves slower than the world expects it to.

His attraction doesn’t spark. It doesn’t leap. It doesn’t arrive on cue like people assume it should.

It waits.

It builds in silence, in familiarity, in safety that has to be earned rather than offered. He doesn’t know the word for it at first. He just knows that what other people call “instant” has never been his language.

Later, he learns the word: demisexual.

It helps, but it doesn’t solve the friction between him and expectation.

Because the world is not patient with slow things.

And he is very, very slow.

---

So he begins to learn another skill.

Escape.

Not dramatic escape. Not running away with bags thrown over shoulders and doors slammed behind him.

This is quieter.

More expensive.

More polished.

He builds distance he can live inside.

High-rise apartments with glass that reflects a version of him that looks complete from far away. Nights that stretch into curated blur. Rooms where nobody stays long enough to notice what he isn’t saying.

He becomes very good at being temporarily known.

Never fully.

Never deeply enough to risk the truth of how he actually attaches to people, how rare it is, how careful it is, how much it depends on time most people refuse to give.

So he stops asking for that time.

He stops waiting for it.

He replaces it with motion.

If he keeps moving, maybe the quiet part of him won’t catch up.

That is what he tells himself.

And for a while, it almost works.

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