Writers 
My shadow resigned today.
It left a note
beside my shoes:
“I am tired of following
someone who keeps pretending
to know where she is going.”
At first, I laughed.
I thought it was another
of the strange jokes
life tells when the morning
has not fully opened its eyes.
But by noon,
my shadow was gone.
I walked past the market
and noticed how bright
the sunlight looked
without my darkness attached.
People stared.
A woman selling oranges
asked if I had lost something.
I said, “Only the part of me
that used to follow.”
She nodded as if
she understood completely,
then gave me one orange
for free.
By evening,
I began to miss it.
I missed the quiet shape
that stretched beside me,
the faithful witness
to every wrong turn,
every hurried escape,
every moment I stood still
and called it progress.
I searched beneath benches,
behind buildings,
inside old photographs.
Nothing.
Then, at midnight,
I found my shadow
sitting on the edge
of the moon.
It looked smaller there.
“Why did you leave?”
I asked.
It answered,
“I didn’t leave you.
I left the version of you
who never asked
where you wanted to go.”
The sky was silent.
Even the stars
seemed to be listening.
So I sat beside it
until morning.
We did not make promises.
We did not pretend
everything would change
overnight.
We simply agreed
to walk together again
but this time,
I would choose the road,
and my shadow
would not have to carry
the weight of my fear.
Since then,
I have walked differently.
Slower.
Braver.
More awake.
And whenever the sunlight
finds me standing still,
my shadow does not complain.
It simply asks:
“Is this where
you truly want to be?”
