Half naked and clad in blankets, they shared a bed. He sat up while she cowered under the sheets.
Little light, it's dark out here and I need your warmth, he whispered.
She whimpered and shrank She couldn't stand that he saw her hidden sun because it shared a space with her smallness and hate. She hated that he told people about her smile.
He held his hand in a shaft of light and dust motes from the coming morning.
You can live here, my star. In this brightness, in this space, in my hand.
Sometimes you blind me, he said.In you lives a tiny infinity.But today, if you want to hide your smile teeth and eyes, if you want to keep them for yourself, I understand.
Cahaya, he said her name like it was a paper thin and brittle. Like he was afraid to put it down. It stayed on his lips and left them hanging open.
A tiny smile leaks through the bed covers.Although today she will not shine, glow or shimmer she smiles because she knows he understands. Today, all that is there, in the space inside, is darkness.
But this too shall pass.
She will make it up to him colouring his Sunday morning the dark grey of her void.