Arms wrapped in tight, hiding in the cavern of her own soul, she cowers under the pressure of nothing and everything at all. 

Heart pounding out of her chest, fingers transfixed in trivial repetitions, her body eerily still. There’s too much to blame for the dull pain in her spine and the ache in her throat—everything and nothing at all. 

And she couldn’t tell them, tell any of them, couldn’t let them worry again. But a single word and she realizes she hasn’t lost the ability to give in so easily; she’s well versed in admissions of failure. 

She won’t do it again, won’t let it take over. This is only a moment—a cloud in the rolling skies that have become her kingdom. She was the sun—is the sun—because she won the battle against the ceaseless night. 

She extended her hands to them all, let their burdens become her own, because she had a place for each of them, an answer. 

Now, she won’t tell them that it’s a bit too much—a bit too much for just right now. 

She’s the sun, but perhaps the night was comforting—a refuge because in it’s folds and shadows she could become nothing—invisible. She misses that comfort, but she doesn’t miss the fear of what lurked in the shadows, of what more could permeate the thin fractures of her soul. No, she won’t allow herself to miss that. 

How could she when these small moments of doubt crawl with the fear of that night? How could she when she shudders at the thought of losing herself again to those saccharine lies? How could she when saying these words at all fills her with guilt?

She won’t become like that again; she simply won’t let it happen. This moment is only today—only the product of making mistakes and letting mistakes be made against her. 

But she is not the sun. She sees that now, that becoming the sun is dangerous, that it puts everything she’s worked for in jeopardy. She is not the sun because she is not invincible. 

She is only herself, with the space for some problems and the strength to let go of the others—the strength to ask for help with the things that simply cannot be hers. 

She is not the sun because the sun is alone, and she is not. The sun watches from afar, but it can never get too close. She has hands to hold, shoulders to lean on, stories to tell to people who listen. She is not a silent observer, not an apathetic benefactor. She is one with everything she touches. 

She is not the sun, but she can learn from the sun—learn to give what she can during the day, rest her eyes at night, and paint beautiful tapestries with the energy that resides in between. 

She is not the sun, but the sun is shining on her. For tonight it has set, but she can rest assured it will rise again tomorrow, and tomorrow she will too.