There is a quiet that follows them,

like the hush before a song begins.

In a room full of voices,

their words land first,

soft, certain, unquestioned.

They do not ask for attention,

because it arrives before they need it.

A coat is held out in winter,

eyes linger longer at the dinner table,

mistakes are smoothed over

like handprints in wet cement.

Others learn to wait.

To raise hands higher.

To accept that love

is not always equally divided,

only gently defended.

The favorite does not boast.

They simply exist,

wrapped in the quiet comfort

of being seen

in every glance,

in every small,

unspoken choice.