Afterlight

By Lavanya Jalan

Loneliness isn’t quiet.

It buzzes

like a power line in the back of my brain.

like static in my blood,

like the hum of a fridge in an empty kitchen.

Loneliness is a shadow

not mine,

not one that follows,

but one that leads

pulling me through rooms I don’t want to be in.

It bumps into furniture,

knocks things over,

laughs when I flinch.

I stopped noticing it was there.

Called it normal.

Called it me.

You learn to walk in the dark.

You learn to breathe underwater.

You learn to smile with a mouth full of broken glass.

The dark becomes home.

You learn its rhythm.

Where the sharp corners are.

Then.

Then.

Someone strikes a match.

One small light.

And suddenly,

the dark looks darker.

The silence screams.

But it doesn’t matter

because now you see their face.

And it’s warm there.

They make you laugh

not the fake kind.

The real kind that aches in your ribs.

You forget.

You forget how cold it used to be.

You forget that the dark used to hold you.

Used to own you.

And for a second,

you think,

'maybe' this is it.

'Maybe' I can stay here

in this small, warm glow.

But the match flickers.

Starts to die.

And you try to cup your hands around it,

try to keep it burning.

But they’re already fading.

The way the sun does

at 6:47 p.m. in July

when the sky turns orange then bruises purple

then gives up completely.

So,

They leave.

Or change.

Or forget how to say your name like it matters.

And the dark returns

like it never left.

Only now it feels heavier,

colder,

sharper.

Like it’s punishing you

for daring to believe

in something else.

There’s no moon.

No stars.

No streetlights.

Just me.

And the buzz.

And the shadow,

curling around my ankles like it missed me.

And I let it.

Because maybe it did.

And maybe I did too.

By Lavanya Jalan