A different kind of spark

Do you think we’re all meant to have our place in the constellation — predestined?

Sometimes, I think I was meant to live in a world I built myself —
a place stitched together from soft pages and quiet hours.
It might be dimly lit, shadowed in corners,
but the echoes there know my name.

Out here, where everything is too bright or too loud,
I feel like a misplaced puzzle piece —
cut from the same cardboard,
but shaped for a different picture.

Someone said to me yesterday,
"You’ve always been the spark — lighting up rooms, making friends like it was breathing."
But sparks fade too, don’t they?
And somewhere, mine flickered inward.

Lately, conversation feels like lifting heavy curtains.
The effort, the weight —
it’s easier to slip between book covers
or lose myself in the hum of small rituals.

When I’m alone, I’m a quiet storm —
the kind that never spills past its teacup,
only ever flooding the table I sit at.

This year, I noticed the paths of old friends stretching like rivers —
some racing ahead,
while I sit by the shore, waiting for a sign.
Every step I take feels like walking barefoot through thorns,
carefully, quietly.

We’re not drifting —
we’re just no longer rowing toward each other.
Once, we took turns steering.
Now, no one reaches for the oars.
And in the silence between us,
even echoes refuse to return.

Time gallops forward,
and I trail behind with cautious footsteps,
not wishing to slow anyone,
but unwilling to sprint toward something I don’t yet understand.

Maybe some stars are only meant to cross once,
before becoming constellations we point to,
saying, “Once, they were right here.”

And if one day we find ourselves on the same path again,
I hope we’ll smile like nothing ever changed.

Until then, I’ll walk at my pace.
And trust that even in quiet,
I’m still becoming.