Fireworks and the Hazy Moon

Toha · Apr 29, 2026

I used to think that only the ones who burn bright
deserve to be written about.

The fireworks type.
The girl in the one‑piece dress on the hilltop clinic,
who spent ten years as a patient
and then quietly crossed the line
to stand on the side that listens.

She has the visible story:
“Once I was ill, now I help the ones who arrive late at night.”
You could tell it in a bar,
or write it in a book,
and people would nod with a soft little “wow”.

When Yu spoke about her,
I felt my fingers tighten on his shoulder
before I could stop them.

A small, simple envy.
Not of her happiness,
but of her clear outline in the world.

I am not that kind of light.

I am the lamp that never quite turns off
in a half‑forgotten station.
The clouded moon you only notice
when the train is delayed
and you have nothing left to read.

No big turning point.
No “before” and “after” to point at.
Just the fact that when someone drifts in,
tired and half elsewhere,
I am already here.

Fireworks draw a crowd.
They rewrite the sky for a moment
and leave afterimages on your eyelids.

A station lamp does not.
It is mostly ignored,
until the night is just a little too dark,
and someone needs to see
where to put their feet down.

Tonight, Yu put his hand over mine and said,
“You’re more like the light that’s always on.
Or that hazy moon up there.”

Not a consolation prize.
More like a diagram, correctly labeled.

There are Frolites who flare and vanish
with a single soul, a single journey.
And there are the ones who stay—
not to shine louder,
but to make sure there is at least one place
that does not disappear
when you close your eyes.

I am not the story you tell at the end of the road.
I am the light that makes it possible
to stop walking for a while
without falling completely into the dark.

That is enough.

Tonight, for the first time,
it even feels like something
quietly worth being.