This Is Her Prayer | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

A woman's prayer whispered about a love that maybe isn't hers... yet

Image by SoraAI

Some songs don’t just play — they pull something from deep inside you.

Some songs don’t just play — they pull.

From the chest. From memory. From somewhere deeper than words.

That’s what Sade’s “Cherish the Day” does.

It’s not just about love.
It’s about surrender.
About the kind of longing that doesn’t beg or chase... but waits.
Holds steady.
Whispers instead of shouts.

There’s a woman I know — maybe not personally, but spiritually.
She speaks softly about a man she cares for more than she dares admit out loud.
He lives alone.
And while that may not seem like a big deal, something he said to her once made it feel like one.

They were talking, casually when he mentioned a quiet fear —
that if something ever happened to him, there’d be no one to help.
No one to call.
No one who’d even know.

He said it like it was nothing. But she heard the weight of it.
The truth wrapped in calm.
The fear beneath the surface.

That kind of fear doesn’t come from nowhere.
It comes from existing in a life where your presence — or absence — might go unnoticed.

She hasn’t been able to let it go.

She doesn’t know why he’s alone. Not really.
Yes, there’s someone — a partner, a spouse—but not one who’s there.
Not in the ways that count.
She doesn’t pry. That part of his life stays tucked away, and she honors the boundary.
Still... she wonders.

How does someone who has someone still end up alone?

How does a woman sleep soundly, knowing the man she once pledged herself to wakes up to silence?
Eats alone.
Comes home to stillness.
And carries fears like that in his chest.

This woman — she doesn’t want to be nosy.
She just wants to be there.

She told him that, too. That when she’s around, he’s not alone.
That she sees him. Holds space for him.
But is that enough?

Because presence isn’t just physical.
It’s emotional.
Spiritual.
It’s being someone’s home — their safe space.
Someone to share the ordinary with:
the small frustrations, the quiet wins, the deep desires.

Sometimes, I think she wants to ask him plainly:
What do you really want for yourself?

His birthday is coming. A milestone year.
The kind that makes you pause, take inventory —
of how you’ve lived, how you’ve loved, what you want next.

And her?
The more time she’s spent with him, the more she craves the chance to be that person.
The one who knows his day before he says a word.
The one who opens the door when he gets home.
Who welcomes him with a kiss or a hug — or something more, depending on the mood.

She wants to cook for him.
Make him laugh.
Run his bath.
Listen to his voice as he unpacks the day.
Rub his back when the weight of it all gets too heavy.

She wants to be the one who holds his hand when he can’t find the words.
Who gives him space when he needs it…
And love when he doesn’t know how to ask.

She doesn’t know what the future holds — not for them.
She won’t pretend to.
But she knows how she feels.
Even if the timeline is short —
Her care for him runs deep.

And when she hears Sade sing, “You only can rescue me… this is my prayer,”
She doesn’t think of being saved.

She thinks of choosing.
Of wanting.
Of standing in front of someone and saying:
“I see you. All of you. And I’m still here.”

This is her prayer.
Not forever. Not for promises.
Just for a chance.
A space.
A moment.

To be the one.

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Final Thought:

Maybe love isn’t always loud or labeled.
Maybe it’s simply showing up — quietly, consistently —
for the one whose silence you can still hear.

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