Glowing in a Room That Forgot to Look Up

The afternoon light is flat, and the house moves on without you. They laugh at a joke you didn't hear.

They plan a trip you weren't asked about. It feels like a quiet erasure — as if your absence is becoming more real than your presence.

But listen. The light that lives inside you does not depend on their attention to burn.

It was there before they knew your name, and it will be there long after the silence falls. You are not defined by how much space you take up in their day.

You are defined by the source that fills you. The kingdom is not a seat at their table — it is the fire in your chest that no one can see, yet no one can extinguish.

You are not fading. You are glowing in a room that has forgotten how to look up.