Greg: Unseen, Essential

Greg: Unseen, Essential

Coffee's on. (Dark roast. Maybe a splash of oat milk.)
Louise is fed. (Good girl. Best Girl. Deserves the world)
Teams pings in the background. (He goes on DnD.)

Somewhere beneath it all,
Greg hums—low and steady,
the bassline in a jazz band,
easy to miss
until it stops.

His care isn't loud.
It's not a solo.
It's not the melody that turns heads.
But it holds the whole damn song together.

His curiosity flickers—
not aimless,
but open.
One day it's drums,
the next, a new sourdough starter, (it died)
maybe chess? (eh, too hard)
He doesn't chase passions—
he visits them,
sits with them,
sees what they have to teach.

And through it all,
he remains steady—
the quiet pulse beneath the noise,
never demanding the spotlight,
but holding the shape of the room.
You don't always notice it.
But without it,
everything feels off.

He dreams of leaving the fluorescent flicker
of corporate servers
for the hiss of steamed milk,
for mugs on butcher block woodgrain,
for conversations that don't require VPNs
and no tone deaf executives saying "let's circle back".

And one day, he will.
We'll be there, filling the stools in his quiet shop,
cups in hand,
murmurs and laughter tangled in the scent of beans.

He'll pass by, towel on shoulder,
pretending he isn't listening—
but we'll raise our mugs anyway.

To Greg—
who kept us steady,
who loved us without noise,
who made space for us before we knew we needed it.

And now?
It's our turn.
To see him.
To show up.
To build the harmony
around his beat.