When the Light Hit My Face Wrong

December 19, 2025 | By Emily

when the light hit my face wrong,

i thought the problem was me

not the glass

bending me thinner,

the pixel grain

turning my skin into data.

the first phone came 

wrapped in silver paper, 

a kind of inheritance: 

the hum of belonging, 

the soft blue pulse of wanting. 

i thought it meant freedom 

a small square of sky i could hold. 

but it was a mirror 

that never slept. 

at night, i’d scroll through the glowing

orchard of other people’s lives, 

fruit so bright it hurt to look at. 

each post a little god, 

each heart a kind of prayer 

i didn’t know i was saying. 

if i could speak to her 

the younger me, eyes wide as notifications 

i’d say: 

not every echo deserves an answer. 

some silence is holy. 

now i keep my peace folded 

between hours, 

mute the noise like trimming branches, 

let the leaves grow back in quiet. 

outside the screen, 

the world still burns and blooms: 

unfiltered, mercifully imperfect.

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About the Author

Emily is a student leader and mental health advocate using creativity to promote civic awareness and social change.

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