Walking home, I saw someone
Rolling a suitcase behind them,
Its small, rigid frame holding
A fraction of a life—
Three, maybe four cubic feet,
Packed tightly for a brief escape.


How strange, I thought,
That we do this every day.
We pack ourselves, unseen,
Folding lifetimes of stories
Into the small, fragile box
Of our brains.


Some boxes are lanterns,
Glowing softly on mantels.
They hold the parts of us
We want the world to notice—
Light spilling through cracks
To cast shapes on the walls.
These are the ones we offer,
Open-lidded,
To anyone who asks the right question.
But the glow is deceiving.


Others are vaults.
They sit buried, locked beneath layers of dust and doubt.
The hinges creak with the weight of what they guard.
Here lies the rubble of days that no one else saw—
Fragments of feelings we can’t name,
Memories we press down until they’re barely recognizable.
Sometimes, even we forget what’s inside.


I carry mine everywhere,
A strange procession of light and shadow.
I wonder what people see when they look,
If they notice the way I clutch and don’t let go
And then there’s you—
A stranger standing before me.
How do I begin to open my vaults?
How do I decide which lanterns to light?


Vulnerability feels like a dangerous gamble.
What if the glow of my lanterns
Isn’t enough to hold your attention?
What if my vaults crack open too soon,
Spilling jagged truths at your feet?
What if you step closer,
Only to decide you’d rather walk away?


I’ve spent years practicing the art
Of keeping my vaults closed,
Polishing my lanterns just enough
To seem like I’m whole.
But maybe—just maybe—
I could begin with something small,
A single shard of glass,
Held out with trembling hands.


And perhaps you’ll do the same.
We’ll trade our fragments,
Softly, tentatively,
Until the space between us
Fills with the warmth of new light,
Flickering, unsteady, but shared.
And maybe one day,
We’ll learn to stand together
Among our lanterns and vaults,
No longer strangers,
But something braver.