I used to think I was empty — that people turned away because I had nothing to offer.

I carried that ache like a shadow, following me into the deepest part of the night — a ghost, lingering even with only the faintest flicker of light. But tonight, it came to me quietly, like dust settling over a tired street.

I had it all wrong.

I do not withhold. I give. Again and again. I pour laughter, patience, tenderness, and warmth. I give until my hands are sore sore from holding. Until my heart hums hollow from the echoes of what used to be. I give until even the small parts of myself begin to fray.

And when the giving is done — when I am soft-spoken and spent, when all that's left is the version of me that simply needs to be held — they leave. Not because I lacked anything, but because I had already given them everything.

They didn’t turn away from emptiness.

They turned away from the truth that I, too, could be in need.