Stray Light

WHEN I WAS A KID, I HAD STRING LIGHTS ABOVE THE BED. They shined like little glowing moons, or fairies, sitting above me at night. They protected me. They loved me. 

My dad destroyed them. 

I sit now, 23 years old, surrounded by broken plastic and light bulbs. I nudge them out of the way as I rise to grab my bong and my favorite book— The Hobbit. The broken pieces follow me, littering the floor everywhere I go. The moon shines broken through the cracked window— its light doesn’t quite reach. I tiptoe over the debris, cautious, but somehow I always misstep. 

My foot touches a stray light. I flinch as her memory presses against my lips, soft and dear, and I can’t stop myself from leaning forward. I fall. I fall straight through the broken string lights, the realms mixing around me, a collided timeline, purple and gray and gold and red and every color I’ve never seen, and I land on the Princess’ bed. 

“I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS!”

The voices screamed from downstairs. 

“Will you prepare the damn food? The brat will need to eat and I’ve a meeting tomorrow.” 

“She’s old enough to make it herself, isn’t she?” 

The Queen scoffed. “You’re just lazy.” 

Hiding under her blanket, my eyes peeked through the crack. The string lights smiled down at me. It calmed my racing heart, dried my teary eyes. 

They fell heavy. I tried to blink them open, but a fairy landed on my nose, lulling me to sleep. I wake up on the floor, 23 again, alone. I stare at the ceiling. My bong sits untouched on the table, and I sigh. 

When I smoke, the broken string lights fade into the carpet, the tile, the hardwood. I remember them, but am no longer haunted. I can’t say the same for her. She’s a ghost that will never move on. I can push forward, I can ignore my broken heart, I can pretend. But she will always be in the background. 

I smoke on the porch until my brain is comfortably hazy. I stare at the moon. She stares back. She’s no longer cracked, shattered. She’s exactly how she should be. 

I lean back and allow the memories to swirl. The time she brought in a stray cat, because she swore they locked eyes and were soulmates. A cat that lived with us for five more years. Our car, now totaled, and all the roadtrips that happened inside. And the home I had to leave behind. They swirl around me like syrup in her favorite latte—mocha with blackberry, sweet and tart. Never something I enjoyed, but I still find myself ordering it, just for it to go cold on the counter. 

When I was a kid, my father’s favorite phrase was ‘it is what it is.’ It is what it is. I broke my foot when I was the lead in the school play and had to give it up entirely? It is what it is. I had a panic attack in front of a boy I liked and now he’s telling everyone what a loser I am? It is what it is. My girlfriend… it is what it is. 

And the sick part is, he’s right. 

I go to bed. Alone. Again. I look up at the string lights she bought me for my 22nd birthday, and let the tears pour. I fall through the bed and into roadtrips, Christmases, and late night chats. Fairies flitter around in a hurricane. I fall through malls and highways, gardens and picnics, the first date. Dragons spit fire, Queens and Kings are usurped. I fall. I fall through fiery realms and icy landscapes, snow-caked mountaintops and deserts. I fall the same way I fell for her— hard, fast, and unstoppable. 

I fall. 

Until there’s nothing left to fall for.