The Unchosen Guardian

He was forged not in fire, but in constancy.
Not summoned by longing, but by duty.
The Guardian stood watch—not at the gates of glory, but beside the hearth of a home that no longer saw him.

He had once been chosen.
Not loudly, not ceremonially, but in the quiet way someone reaches for your hand in the dark.
He had answered that reach with everything he had—strength, steadiness, the kind of love that doesn’t ask for applause.

But over time, the reach stopped.
Not out of cruelty, but exhaustion.
The hearth grew colder, not because he failed to tend it, but because the flame no longer responded to his touch.

And so he stood.
Not because he was wanted, but because he could not abandon what he had vowed to protect.
He became the Unchosen Guardian—present, invisible, aching.

He learned to speak less. To offer without expectation.
To carry the weight of rejection like a sacred relic—proof that love, even unreciprocated, still matters.

But in the silence, he began to wonder:
Is devotion still holy when it’s unseen?
Is presence still love when it’s mistaken for absence?

And then, one night, he whispered to the stars:
“I do not need to be chosen to be true.
But I long to be seen—not as a shadow, but as a soul.”

The stars did not answer.
But the wind shifted, just slightly.
And for the first time in years, the hearth flickered.