The Light Shines When The Room Is Empty

The joke forms on your tongue, perfectly timed, and you turn to share it—only to find the room is empty. The silence that follows is heavy, a sudden reminder that no one is there to laugh with you.

You swallow the words, and the smile fades into something thinner, something you wear for the grocery store, for the commute, for the world that expects you to be okay. But the light does not need an audience to be real.

It was shining in you before the joke was ever thought, and it shines still, even when the laughter dies in your throat. You are not less because no one heard you.

The light inside you is not a performance that requires a crowd. It is the quiet, steady presence that stays when the room clears out.

The mask slips, and beneath it, you are still held.