I tried really hard to think about happy thoughts, to write about happy things, but every effort slips into the void. Maybe I don’t understand what happiness means. Is it the mask of a smile when the voices that broke me call my name again? Or is it the hollow sound of laughter at 2 a.m., echoing off my bedroom walls as I talk to myself? “Do what makes you happy,” they say. But what does happiness even look like? All my life I’ve reached for it, only to watch it sprint away— a shadow faster than light, a language my heart was never taught. This was meant to be a bright piece, a hymn of joy, but happiness dissolves in my hands. Maybe I was carved for something else. Maybe the darkness fits me better than the light. Yes— happiness is not my place.