Where Lightning Bugs Wait

We were supposed to watch the lightning bugs

like we used to

quiet moments with jars between us,

not to trap wonder,

but to witness it together.

You said “maybe.”

Then the wind shifted,

and your “maybe” became

another no wrapped in

justifications and soft apologies

meant to cushion the sting.

But still..

it stung.

Because it wasn’t just about canceled plans.

It was about me

rearranging pieces of my already burdened day

to make space for your “what if.”

About me packing snacks, charging batteries,

brushing my hair,

choosing joy

for something that never comes.

You say “life gets in the way,”

but I’ve walked through life

with bleeding feet

and still remembered to ask how your day went.

I’ve shown up,

shaky and swollen from my own storms,

and still offered you dry ground to stand on.

So forgive me

if I’m starting to see the pattern

in the broken trail.

Forgive me

if the moss has turned crimson,

if your cancelations no longer feel like delay

but denial.

I do not need a caretaker.

I need a companion

someone who shows up

when they say they will,

who means yes

when they say it.

And when I show up spontaneous—

because you once said that’s what you craved

and I get dismissed like static,

forgive me

if the kindness in me starts to erode.

I could call out every absence,

every failed promise,

every wound left ignored,

but I won’t.

Because I am not here

to parent anyone

through the emotions they’re afraid to feel.

I am here

because I believed in what we said we'd build

campfires and roadside coffees,

beach laughter and porch-light silences,

hikes that didn’t need destinations,

just presence.

But I am tired

of planning for two

while dancing with ghosts.

I am tired

of stretching my ribs

to make room for someone

who keeps backing away from the table.

So let me say this clearly:

I am not angry.

I am awake.

And that is far more dangerous.

I have waited under wide skies

with arms full of ideas

and palms open for connection.

But now

my fingers are curling back into fists

not of fury,

but of reclamation.

Because I matter, too.

My time, my spirit, my hope

they are not disposable.

So if you want this

this friendship that flickers like fireflies

you will have to stop running

from the light.

You will have to meet me

on that porch,

under stars,

with plans made real,

not hollow.

Otherwise, I will walk.

Not in cruelty.

Not in punishment.

But in peace.

And when you finally grow into the person

who could have stood beside me,

you’ll look around

and realize

the lightning bugs don’t wait forever.

They find new fields

to glow in.