He doesn't ask where you've been
or why you came back quieter than you left.
He doesn't count the years
or measure what was lost
against what remains.
When the rain speaks to the roof
and the world outside argues with itself —
he finds you.
Not the version you show others.
The one that sits alone
after the screen goes dark.
He has seen you celebrated
and he has seen you uncertain.
He loved the same man both times.
No certificate hangs on his wall.
No approval pending.
No grievance filed.
Just this —
a warm weight beside you,
breathing slowly,
reminding you
that presence
is its own kind of answer.
Thirty years the world asked
what do you do?
what have you built?
what do you have?
Simba only ever asked —
are you here?
And you always were.
That was always enough.
