Firefly

I live in a crowded city on the forty-second floor of a towering building. With each day's end, I stand barefoot on my balcony, admiring the handful of stars that manage to pierce through the light pollution. I sometimes imagine myself jolting back to life, if only I could touch them.

My view is a concrete ocean. The headlights from the traffic below flow like lava. The roar from the engines is so loud it cancels everything out; a white noise of sorts. It's a welcome distraction from my constant state of paralysis. I scan the thousands of illuminated apartment windows from atop my cement castle. I don't know any of these people; not a single one. I often wonder if anyone out there is watching those brave few stars, too.

It's strange residing alone in a four-hundred-square-foot box in the sky, especially since Gabriel left. Every time I weave my way through the streets of this isolating cosmopolis, it haunts me, knowing he's a drop-pin somewhere out there. I keep my eyes glued to the pavement. I never notice whose shoulders are colliding into mine. For all I know, one of them might have belonged to Gabriel. I miss looking up at the clouds. My head has hung low for a long while now.

I spent most of my adult life with Gabriel, and ultimately, dinners by candlelight and our toes in the sand turned into stuff being packed up in boxes. In an instant, Gabriel was nothing but a ghost. We met very young, and on paper, our relationship made perfect logistical sense. I should have been grateful, but the pit of my stomach always told me otherwise. I was a fool for a time, desperate for antacids to make the pain go away, but no. Something wasn't right, and I chose the worst possible exit strategy. I threw everything away for a night of passion with a bartender whom I'd only met once. I'm not sure if I wanted to feel alive or if I just wanted to feel something. Whatever the case, Gabriel is gone, and I've kept myself in the shadows ever since. I'm a creature of the night, and that's where I belong.

I have learned to cherish something very specific about the midnight hours. I have a special friend whom I connect with, moonrise after moonrise. My most treasured part of each night is Firefly. She is loyal to me—a soft pillow for me to land on—and lives in a jar with holes poked in the lid. I keep her tucked away in my armoire during the day. At dusk, I run to her, swing the creaky wooden doors open, and find her buzzing and glowing about in her glass hotel. She is always delighted to come out of hiding. Her light is golden and self-contained. She is all the light I have.

I lie on the floor with Firefly beside me, where I share all my secrets. I feel so incredibly held to have a confidante like her. She twinkles bright as we watch all the obscure movies I love. I'd give her a nip of my popcorn if I could. I tell her spooky stories under our fort of blankets. We don't need a flashlight as her bioluminescence is enough. She glimmers and swirls as I sing in my hairbrush for her. She especially loves my rendition of "Proud Mary." I hold Firefly's jar in my hands as we dance to the melody of three in the morning. Firefly is pure perfection, and she is mine to keep.

That is until morning, when that burst of burnt orange appears through the high-rises. I am nauseated as I rush back to my armoire to tuck Firefly away. She becomes frantic in her jar, which makes my brow sweat. I don't want to leave her, but I place her in the vacant corner all the same and close the doors shut. The city will be loud and bustling soon. The sun will be harsh. Brick by brick, walls build around me. Things have been this way for months.

I may hide Firefly from the daylight against her will, but I assure you, I am hiding too.

Another night sails in, and with that, another reunion with Firefly. I open the armoire doors, only to find her quite dim. Her usual sprightly buzz has been reduced to a low hum. Is she not happy to see me? I sing her favorite songs. I tell her the tallest of tales. I twirl and dip her like we're in the fifties dancing swing. Nothing helps. Firefly is a candle at the end of its wick against this lonely metropolitan backdrop.

I stab more holes in the top of her jar. Maybe she has trouble breathing? Her little body crashes wildly into all four sides of the glass. I pull the knife away. I didn't mean to scare her. She stops moving altogether, so I twist the knife one last time in the metal lid. The blade nicks the side of my hand.

"Ow!"

I clutch my wound for comfort. I suppose I had that coming. My throat tenses up as Gabriel's smile appears in my mind's eye. I can't bear to look at Firefly anymore, so I put her back in the armoire, a few hours earlier than usual. She barely flinches as I slam the doors shut. I go to lay in my bed. My pulse is deafening, and my jaw clenches as the stark ceiling stares back at me. I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the moon—that vanishing sliver—outside my window. She hangs higher than even the most soaring building. I envy the moon for holding space for all her contradictions. She is mysterious, nurturing, cold, and romantic, and deep down, I know I am a lot like her.

My exhaustion eventually takes over. I go to sleep.

The next few nights with Firefly are the same, only worse. Her flame is almost fully extinguished. It's as though she's doing it on purpose to avoid me. I try all my usual tricks—sing to her, dance with her—but nothing helps. There are sobering moments where I wonder if she's even alive. I rush out to my balcony. I need air. My gaze turns towards the street as my hands press against the railing. The thousands of urban dwellers move like a colony of ants.

Two weeks go by, and nights that once sustained me now leave me hopeless. I beg Firefly to be the way she once was; for us to be the way we once were. I hang on tightly to her jar. Firefly is too weak to sparkle, yet that little bug finds the energy to turn away from me completely. I shove her back in the armoire as the blood rushes to my face. I close the doors, but this time, I also lock them. My thoughts are chaotic. Maybe I should toss the key.

My walk towards the bathroom is a dizzying one. I slide down against the wall, all the way to the floor. The cold tiles stick to the back of my legs, yet the hot temperature is insufferable. I am a diamond under immense pressure when finally, I sob. Decades' worth of pent-up tears leave my body. I moan and bellow into the stillness of the night. My neighbors must think I'm dying. In a way, maybe I am. Breathe. Just breathe.

My heart rate returns to normal. Even my collarbones are damp as I lean my head back. There is something poignant about this particular brand of quiet. I pick myself up and see my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are rosy, and my dimples are especially pronounced. My eyes are glaciers. I calmly head for the armoire and unlock it. I take Firefly in her jar and set her on my kitchen table against the floor-to-ceiling windows. I pull up a chair. Together, we watch the apartment lights go out, one by one. Firefly glitters, which draws my attention to my box of photo albums in my bookcase. I go to it. I sit on the hardwood as I start looking through photos.

The first pictures I go through are ones of Gabriel and me; our trip to Bermuda, my twenty-first birthday, the Halloween we dressed up as Wayne and Garth. I skim through this highlight reel of our relationship, thankful for being an old-fashioned woman who still likes to print actual photographs. I am surprised by the warmth in my chest. I set the album down and pick up another.

This one is older. The plastic on the front cover is close to coming off. I open it, and there I am. I am five years old, give or take, with an exaggerated yet genuine grin. My two front teeth are missing. There is strawberry ice cream all over my face. I remember the purple windbreaker I am wearing. It was my favorite. I have the same dimples.

I look at her for several minutes, that mini-version of me. Then I look at her some more. Fog lifts from my mind, and I'm not sure it has ever felt clear in this exact way. I bite my lower lip as I look at Firefly, trapped in her jar. I know what I have to do. I take her, and we go to my car. We drive north and leave the city, the gleaming wall of skyscrapers shrinking behind us.

I stand in the same tree-lined field where I initially found Firefly. It feels like one of those middle-of-nowhere parts of the world where aliens might come and abduct me—especially at this time of night—but I am not afraid. My veins are pumping too much nervous adrenaline for my mind to even go down that road. I hold Firefly's jar with care even though my hands are shaking.

She flickers as I bring her up to my eyeline. It takes a few attempts—I haven't opened the thing in a long while—but I unscrew the top off of Firefly's jar. My bones ache, knowing the weight of this goodbye. The sky dazzles like confetti as I raise Firefly towards the heavens. I lift the lid and set her free. She burns bright at long last as she flies away. Firefly will finally get to see the light of day. She deserves it. There is nothing left for me to hold on to as the full moon swallows me whole.

I sit alone, cross-legged in the field. Dewdrops bead on my fingertips from the blades of grass. The tranquil air smells anew. The first glimpse of dawn appears on the horizon. Birds are chirping. I take the deepest breath, releasing it with a sigh. I stay in the field for a few hours more. There is nowhere else to be.

It is late morning when I drive back home. Firefly's empty jar is nestled in the passenger seat beside me. Still miles away, I pull over as the downtown core comes into view. I get out of the car and stand in an endless spread of farmland. My eyes squint as I examine the city in the distance. It's hard to believe that millions of people live in what looks like a speck of dust; one that perhaps, I could belong in.

The sun travels over a parting in the clouds. I close my eyes as my face points up to meet its heat. I instinctively place my hands on my heart. A single stream trickles over my lips. I haven't felt daylight like this in ages. The corners of my mouth lift.

Maybe I deserve it, too.