Wednesday Morning Sensory Inputs
/The Feeling of Being Liked
Some things you just know. The crispness in the air before a storm, the way the sky turns that particular shade of heavy blue. The scent of rain before it arrives, petrichor rising from the earth like an offering. The sound of tires slicing through puddles, a promise of temporary chaos. The way cold water shocks the skin before settling into something familiar.
And then, there’s knowing when someone genuinely likes you.
It’s not always obvious. Sometimes, it arrives subtly, like a scent on the wind—faint, lingering, inviting you to lean in. Other times, it’s unmistakable, a warmth that settles into your bones, impossible to ignore.
What does it look like?
It’s the way someone lights up when they see you, a spark that isn’t performative but organic—like the sun breaking through clouds. It’s in the lingering eye contact, the way their focus doesn’t scatter when you speak. It’s watching their body angle toward you, unconsciously closing the space between what’s polite and what’s personal.
What does it feel like?
It’s the ease of presence, the absence of calculation. The way silence isn’t something to fill but something to share. It’s warmth—not just in words, but in nearness, in a gentle touch that lingers half a second longer than necessary. It’s the way conversation flows, like water finding its way downstream, unforced but inevitable.
What does it smell like?
Like familiarity wrapped in curiosity. Maybe it’s their scent woven into your shirt after a hug, a quiet ghost of their presence. Or it’s the distinct, grounding scent of their skin when they’re close enough that proximity becomes a language. It’s the perfume you catch on your sleeve long after they’ve walked away, leaving a reminder without meaning to.
What does it taste like?
Like anticipation. The way coffee tastes richer when shared in conversation that lingers past closing hours. Like the sweetness of something unexpected… laughter over a meal, the moment where the world narrows down to just the two of you. It’s the absence of bitterness, the way words land softer, without the metallic taste of pretense.
What does it sound like?
Like your name, said in a way that feels like home. Like laughter that isn’t polite but unrestrained, spilling out in a way they don’t try to contain. It’s the quiet hum of understanding, the way they ask questions that show they were already listening. It’s the unspoken language of someone who wants to be where you are, not just out of habit, but out of want.
Sometimes, the knowing is immediate—a lightning strike, undeniable. Other times, it’s slower, revealing itself over time, like the way dusk fades into night. But when it’s real, when it’s tangible, it doesn’t need to be overanalyzed.
It just is.
And once you’ve known it, anything less is just noise.
I Am