Page 75 of Lennox Lane

The host laughed like she’d seen the entire exchange. “Oh, this is about to be good. Give it up for Lennox Jackson.”

Applause rose as Lennox walked to the stage.

Lane sat very still.

The sight of him up there did something strange to her. Lennox was usually so controlled in rooms, so aware of every exit and every eye, so smooth it was easy to mistake him for untouchable. But under the amber stage lights, paper in hand, he was vulnerable and exposed for the sake of fitting in her world. He adjusted the mic, glanced down once at the page, then looked directly at Lane.

“This poem is called ‘Unencrypted.’”

I met a woman who wore survival like it was stitched into her skin.

Not the kind of survival people put on inspirational posters.

The real kind.

The kind with scars hidden beneath laughter.

The kind that learns how to carry entire worlds without asking for help.

The kind that mistakes exhaustion for strength.

She walks through every room like she’s daring gravity to do its worst.

And somehow, gravity listens.

I’ve watched grown men forget entire conversations because she smiled.

Watched rooms shift toward her without realizing they were moving.

Watched her pretend not to notice.

That’s the thing about her.

She has no idea what she looks like through my eyes.

She doesn’t know that her laugh sounds like a reward.

That her voice can settle storms I didn’t know I was carrying.

That every time she says my name, it feels less like a word.

and more like a prayer I don’t deserve answered.

She’s beautiful.

Not in the way magazines describe beauty.

Not in the way cameras capture it.

She’s beautiful the way sunrises are beautiful.

The way old songs are beautiful.

The way coming home is beautiful.

Impossible to explain until you’ve experienced it yourself.

And Lord…