I live in a house
full of heartbeat and voices,
laughter ricocheting off walls,
footsteps tapping rhythms up and down stairs.

And yet
there are nights
when the noise dissolves
and I am alone
in a room packed with people.

It’s strange, right?
To feel invisible
while standing center stage
in your own life.

Pain has a way of pulling up a chair
uninvited,
crossing its arms,
and unpacking its suitcase
in the one corner you wanted to keep tidy.

It whispers,
“I’m back.”
And you whisper back,
“I know.”

And in that moment
you feel both dead and alive
like your spirit is on pause
but your eyes won’t stop leaking.

Tears form their own symphony,
running down your cheeks,
drumming a beat against your chest,
reminding you that
something is still moving.
Something is still pulsing.
Something in you refuses
to flatline.

Funny thing?
People see your smile, the practiced one,
the one with the choreography
you perfected years ago.

You dance the dance,
crack the joke,
tilt your head just-so,
and everyone nods like,
“Oh, she’s good. She’s fine.”

Meanwhile,
you’re lying on the metaphorical floor inside,
cheek pressed to tile,
breathing shallow,
crying the kind of tears
you only let out when the world can’t see.

But
(because there is always a but in the story)
it is never fully dark.

There’s always a sliver of light
sliding under the door
thin, fragile, but persistent.

Hope is funny like that:
it doesn’t need to kick the door open.
Just needs one tiny crack
to slip in,
sit beside you,
and say,
“I’m not going anywhere.”

So you lie there
alive and hurting,
alone in a crowd,
heart cracked but still beating.

And somewhere under the door,
a glow waits.

Maybe dim,
maybe trembling,
but present.
The kind of light
that makes you reach out
even when your hands are shaking.

Because pain lingers
it does.
It’s honest like that.

But so does hope.
So does that stubborn spark
inside you
that refuses to be extinguished.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for tonight.