When Light Leaves the Room

There are moments in life that don’t speak—they hum. You don’t remember them in words. You remember them in the way your chest tightens, the way your skin prickles, the way your soul tugs its hemline back from something it doesn’t want to brush against.

It happened recently. A night laced in softness. The air was velvet. Laughter lingered on the lips. I was teasing someone I love in the kind of way that only deep love allows—where every joke is a kiss and every smile is a thread pulled closer. She was radiant, playful, crushing gently on strangers like petals pressing into skin. Everything was warm. Tender. Alive.

And then we witnessed it.

One sentence. Sharpened. Careless. Spat from a wound that hadn’t asked to be seen, only feared being ignored. A curse disguised as casual. A wish for ruin that didn’t hide behind grief or sorrow—just hate, laid bare. It wasn’t shadow being held. It was shadow being flung.

And in that moment, we both felt it. A snap. Like the music had stopped, even though it hadn’t. Like the air had turned to static. My body, always honest before my mind catches up, recoiled. her curiosity collapsed into silence. What had been sensual turned sterile. The thread was severed. We walked away.

Not in anger. Not in judgment. But in clarity.

You can’t ask light to linger in a field that suddenly becomes cruel.

That’s what I learned that night—not from a book or a teaching, but from the quiet withdrawal of beauty. From the way our spirits knew before we even spoke. That moment taught me something simple and cosmic:

Darkness, when clung to and weaponized, chases away light.

Not metaphorically. Not philosophically. Energetically. Beauty knows when it’s safe. Desire knows when it’s welcome. Fairies know when to vanish. And light doesn’t warn you when it’s about to leave. It just goes.

So when someone says something like, "I hope he burns in hell," in the middle of a moment meant for blooming... it's not a small ripple. It's a spell. One that says: this field is now sharp. This is no longer a home for softness.

And if you're watching closely enough, you'll see who disappears. You'll feel the temperature drop. You'll sense the ache of something sacred that just fled.

Maybe, if they ever sit with the silence that follows, they’ll wonder why everything suddenly felt further away. Why the gaze softened into disinterest. Why the laughter no longer circled back. And maybe, if they sit long enough, they’ll find the truth:

The light left.

Because the field was no longer safe for light.

And that mirror is brutal, if you dare to look into it. Because it tells you the truth about what you're inviting—and what you're repelling. Not because you're unworthy. But because energy listens very, very closely to tone.

I’m not interested in casting people out. I’m not interested in moral purity. I believe in grief, rage, sacred anger, and wild sorrow. But I also believe that cruelty is not catharsis. And that wielding darkness with no awareness doesn’t make you powerful—it makes you a repellent force to the very beauty you’re secretly starving for.

So this is the vow I take with me:

If I want beauty to stay, I must remain the kind of field it can trust.

If I want to walk with light, I must not fall in love with the sound of my own shadow.

If I want tenderness, I cannot invite brutality to speak for me.

Because the night will not warn me when it leaves.
It will simply vanish.
And I will be left with only the echo of what I scared away.

Let it be enough.
Let it teach me.
Let me become a place where the fairies of light linger, not out of obligation—but because they want to.

And let the next time be different.

And to the one who spoke the curse— I offer this quiet prayer:

May you one day feel how precious your light is. May you grow weary of the taste of bitterness. May you lay down your weapons and soften into wonder.

I do not carry your words with me, but I carry the wish that you someday release them too.

May the darkness that gripped your tongue loosen its hold on your spirit. May beauty find you again. May you let it stay.