The Light In Hiding

I. The Night Listener

Nights become days—because what’s the difference?

Not fitting in was Marvin’s normal. He preferred the darkest hours, when the world grew quiet and he could breathe. At night, everything slowed down. There was peace. Calm. It felt like the whole world belonged to him.

Daytime, though, was a different story—full of poverty, sadness, and bullying. Marvin was a winner trapped in a loser’s place, overlooked each day because of circumstance. He was always searching for his place in a world that didn’t seem to want him.

Still, despite everything, Marvin had a unique way of sharing his gift—even if no one was around to witness it.

One night, Marvin lay in bed, talking to the moon, having a conversation only he could hear. He held nothing back, voicing his disappointment in the life he’d been given. The night was like most others—full of complaints, quiet smiles, bursts of anger, and occasional laughter. Strange, maybe—but that’s what made Marvin special. His relentless monologues could change the world, if only someone would listen.

His ability to inspire ran deep, but without an audience, it often felt pointless. And when speaking felt useless, Marvin turned to writing.

He picked up his pen and wrote:

“Shapes cut from the walls, decorated around the room.

Eyes open without a single image consumed,

Thoughts are visions painting the mind.

Moments glued together like a movie,

Teaching lessons we never heard.

Rage is calm once the pulse settles,

But the damage is done.

Beaten and bruised is the soul with no hiding place,

Searching for cover under fire.

One must gasp in thin air hoping to fill their lungs—

But not breathing abandons struggle.

Take a deep breath, even if it’s your last,

That way you know you tried to live.”

His gift was undeniable—but he didn’t see it. He tore the pages to shreds, blind to his own brilliance.

The quest for self-love eludes many. Even those surrounded by praise and privilege often struggle to look inward. Marvin was no different. So he found himself back where he started: upset, lonely, but strangely peaceful.

He told himself that hurt feels less damaging when it comes from within. But he was wrong. That kind of hurt lingers longer and cuts deeper.

Still searching for answers inside his own chest, Marvin remembered something he’d recently heard:

“If you can’t face the storm yourself, become something that can.”

That thought stayed with him. It sparked something. Slowly, Marvin picked up his pen again. And this time, he let the words flow without judgment.

“Stunning uncertainty questions each step with freedom.

Constant wrong turns are common when life becomes a cruel joke.

Calm becomes reckless when feelings remain unnamed.

Relax. Just breathe. How simple.

Words never heard can’t be spoken—but isn’t that always the case?

The pressure to be seen and heard grows stronger

When fixed eyes never look inward.

It’s natural to fear what’s inside,

But that doesn’t make the silence right.

The craving for recognition must start in the mirror—

Reading each page of yourself like a sacred book.

Think boldly. Build the standard of greatness

Required to meet your own core.

Gifts in empty boxes still deserve to be opened.

Burnt out and youthful—a beautiful contradiction.

Keep staring. The answer will come.

But only when different is finally taken seriously.

Demand greatness—and it will be delivered,

Though it may look nothing like you expected.

Nourish your faith and your love,

In hopes of receiving a gift worth opening.”

He titled it: “Barn Owl, the Night Hunter.”

⸻

II. The Whisper Before the Echo

By now, it had become a ritual.

Each night, Marvin left a piece of himself behind.

Torn scraps tucked between library pages. Folded notes slid behind old soda bottles in vending machines. Chalk-written lines ghosted across locker doors. Each offering signed only: LC — Lonely Child.

He never signed his name. He never stayed to see if someone found them. It wasn’t for credit. It was to feel like he existed somewhere outside his own mind.

One night, though, he brought a poem with him to the park. Not to hide. Not to leave behind.

To read.

He sat on a bench behind a crooked tree, his back to the open path, facing the night sky, and whispered his words aloud:

“I write because the page

Doesn’t flinch when I speak.

Because no one listens

Until silence does the talking.

I write because

I don’t know how to scream

Without sounding like music.”

When he finished, the quiet filled the space again. And then—

A voice.

Soft. Barely louder than a breath:

“Wow.”

That was it.

No footsteps. No name.

Just one word.

Marvin froze.

And ran.

The paper slipped from his hand as he did. It fluttered in the wind and landed at someone’s feet.

⸻

III. The Buzz and the Blur

The name LC began to echo.

Students began sharing poems online. Whispering quotes in hallways. Pinning photocopies on corkboards.

LC became a presence. A mirror. A whisper people could hold.

“LC gets me.”

“LC writes what I wish I could say.”

“LC helped me feel like I wasn’t alone.”

But then came the pretenders.

“That was me. I just didn’t say anything before.”

“My friend writes as LC.”

“I’ve posted stuff like that too.”

Marvin didn’t want recognition. But something about it all started to ache. Like someone else was using his voice to speak their truth. Not out of resonance—but for attention.

And that, he couldn’t let happen.

So he wrote something that only he could write.

⸻

The Reel

I am pieces, and once gathered, I am whole —

but the puzzle of me is difficult.

The start was clear and painless,

only to raise the height of my fall,

ensuring the damage is felt when I do.

Well, here I go.

Everything caves in with little to feel or learn,

but challenges create monumental structures

that put others in awe.

I never asked for this

and have no control over the suffering I must endure,

regardless of what I think I deserve.

Somehow, we as humans

believe the world should turn the way we prefer,

although we tend to ruin our blessings,

regardless of how gracefully life treats us.

Searching for answers becomes no easier with age,

but the realization that our solutions

lie in things we already possess

is the truth of real peace.

He left it on the school’s front office counter.

Signed: LC.

And walked away.

⸻

IV. The Light in Hiding

The buzz didn’t die.

But Marvin didn’t add to it.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t post. He didn’t run anymore.

He just wrote.

He lived in the shadows, and finally—he felt fine there.

But one day, a new page appeared.

Taped to the inside of the school’s back exit door—where no one ever posted anything. Where people rushed out without thinking.

No name. No title. Just a page.

⸻

Unfound

I’ve never asked to be seen,

only understood.

I live in margins and pauses,

in quiet halls and closed books,

where shadows stretch without shame.

I am not your idol.

I am not your mystery.

I am not a ghost.

I am someone you’ve walked past

a hundred times,

and I am still here.

You don’t need to find me.

You already have.

I am not looking for the light.

I am only learning

how to hold it in my hands.

⸻

Some voices never leave the shadows.

But the world learns to listen anyway.

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