Who are we? Who are we, really?

When the lights fade,

when the audience blinks away,

when the mirror sighs its loneliness

and the applause never comes—

who’s left?

We are the quiet shuffle of socks

against cold tile floors,

the hum of a refrigerator trying to keep alive

what little we have left.

We are breath held too long,

a sharp inhale of “Did I lock the door?”

We are the ones who say, “It’s fine,”

to no one, and mean it less every time.

They say your shadow only follows you in the light.

But what if it dances in the dark?

What if it’s not a shadow but a second self,

stretching, aching, spilling its secrets

into the soft bowl of night?

We are messy hands,

tearing open bags of chips like they owe us something.

We are the notes in the margins of books

that no one else will read.

The doodles, the scratches, the ink bleeding through.

We are the grin after the bad joke,

the smirk of “I’m so dumb,” and the silence after.

Who are we when no one is watching?

We are a single sock,

orphaned in the dryer.

We are the playlist we’ll never share,

the one with the song that makes us cry—

but only at 2 a.m., when the moon is drunk

and the stars don’t care.

We are the truth,

but only in whispers,

only in fragments.

A memory caught in the throat.

A laugh that turns into a sob mid-flight.

A heart beating for someone who’ll never know.

But maybe—just maybe—

we’re also the fire.

Not the kind that burns for show,

not the fireworks,

not the candle on someone else’s birthday cake.

No.

We are the ember that refuses to die.

The flame we cup between our hands

like a secret, like a promise.

We are the ones who try,

again and again, even when it hurts.

We are our own witness.

Who are we when no one is watching?

We are infinite.

We are raw.

We are beautiful

in the way a scar is beautiful—

proof that something tried to break us,

and we said, “No. Not yet.”