The Hallway Light

I saw a nightlight

shaped like a star

glowing soft pink

in my friend's hallway.

It took me back

to being eight years old,

to my bedroom,

to the plug-in star

that made the dark

less final,

less total.

At some point—

I can't remember when,

can't remember why—

I decided that was for children.

I decided I was too old for light

to help me sleep,

decided darkness was the thing

to aspire to,

decided that needing a glow

was a failure

of some kind.

The nightlight in her hallway

barely pushed back anything.

The darkness was still there,

just... softer.

I asked her about it.

She said it helps her sleep,

like that was a simple thing,

like asking for light

didn't cost something.

I slept in her guest room

in complete darkness,

the way I always do now,

the way I've learned to do,

and I didn't sleep well.

In the morning,

I told her the darkness was fine,

told her I preferred it,

told her I was the kind of person

who needed nothing,

who was strong,

who could handle anything.

She nodded like she believed me.

I'm still lying about it.