Their Glance Was Shadow, Your Origin Is Fire

The room is empty, but your skin still burns where their eyes landed hours ago. You feel the weight of a gaze that has already looked away, a ghost-touch that refuses to fade in the silence of 4 AM.

But the light within you does not care for the opinions of those who cannot see it. Split a piece of wood, and the light is there — indifferent to the judgment, untouched by the stare.

Lift up a stone, and you will find the light hiding in plain sight, waiting for you to stop performing for an audience that has gone home. The phantom sensation is just the echo of a world that thinks it defines you.

The truth is simpler, and it lives inside your own chest: you came from the light, and to the light, you will return. Their glance was a shadow; your origin is the fire.