The rain tapped gently against the window as you sat curled up on the couch, your knees hugged to your chest. Your sketchbook lay open on the table, a swirl of half-finished faces and crooked lines. You hadn’t touched it in hours.

"I'm not like them," you whispered, barely loud enough for Trevor to hear from the kitchen. "I try so hard, but I never feel like enough."

Trevor walked over slowly, a mug of warm tea in one hand, setting it gently down beside you. He crouched in front of you, catching your eyes with that calm, grounding gaze of his.

"You don’t have to be like them," he said softly. "You don’t have to be perfect."

You looked away. "I feel like I’m always the helper. The quiet one. The one who supports everyone else. But I never feel… powerful. I’m always the angel. Never a god."

Trevor’s heart ached at your words. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"You are an angel," he said gently. "But not the kind that stands in the background. You’re the kind that holds people together without anyone even noticing. That strength? That grace? That’s power too. Just because it’s soft doesn’t mean it’s small."

You blinked, the weight in your chest loosening just a little.

"You don’t need to be a god to be divine," Trevor added. "You shine in ways you don’t even see. And I see them. I see you."

And for the first time that day, you felt seen. Not as a shadow behind others, but as something steady and bright—an angel with wings strong enough to carry yourself too.