The small, beige candle sat humbly in its dull holder of steel with faded engraving. The candle was already quite short; wax from previous lightings created tears of dried wax on the sides, gluing the stub to its holder. A dark wick was barely visible at the top, and its edges were beginning to fray. The candle was placed on a mahogany side table with a single drawer that held only a half-used box of matches.

If one looked closely at the faded engraving on the small candle holder, they would see the words, “For when you forget your own light” delicately carved in cursive. The message was barely readable after all of the months that had passed. She read the message every day with tears in her eyes. But then, when were her eyes dry?
A lone stool of the same mahogany as the small table crouched in the corner. The table and stool were the only furniture not covered with old food containers, knick knacks, photographs, books, and dust. The young woman waded her way through everything to the stool and pulled it across the floor to the table. She sat with her pale hand tucked under her chin. With the other, she placed a loose strand of long, wavy, dark brown hair behind her ear. She briefly looked around the room and scoffed.

“Agoraphobia,” they called it. The fear of leaving your home because you’re afraid of what will happen if you go outside. Everything in her life remained in the small house. They could call it what they wanted. The young woman deemed it “without Naomi”.

Just thinking of her lover’s name brought tears to her eyes. Fear of leaving your home because of what could happen? She had right to be afraid. How many times had that day, that moment, replayed over and over in her head? She thought about everything that had happened, as she did whenever she sat in front of her candle. The candle given to her by her dear Naomi, as a reminder that no matter what others said or did, her light would always shine. But she had lost that light the day Naomi died. Her candle in its faded holder was all she had left.
The young woman slowly opened the drawer on the side table, pulling out the box of matches. She struck it and the small flame cast light in the otherwise dark room. She lit the frayed wick of her candle and then blew out the match, throwing it on the ground next to the dozens of others.

The flame danced at the top of the candle stub. “For when you forget your own light”....she gently stroked the writing with her forefinger.

“I love you, Naomi,” she whispered as a single tear fell from her cheek onto the mahogany table.
The light of the candle flickered once in response before reaching the end of the wick, leaving only darkness and a curl of smoke rising from the puddle of wax. The wax was beginning to drip over the engraving. The young woman wiped it away with her finger, ignoring the sharp burn.

The strand of hair that she tucked behind her ear earlier fell into her face again. She didn’t care. In the darkness, she let her long, brown hair fall into her face and around her shoulders. She remembered how Naomi would run her fingers through her hair, giving her a massage. She laid her head on her shoulder, as though Naomi’s hand was there.

“I’m sorry, Naomi,” she said to the last wisps of smoke. She stood from her stool and grabbed the candle holder. Wading through all of the crap in her apartment, she grabbed her purse from her bed and shoved the holder inside. The young woman walked to the door, down to the lobby of her apartment building. She got strange looks from her neighbors as she passed. As she looked out the glass doors to the outside, she took a deep breath and clutched the candle holder in her purse.

As she saw the sun shining in through the glass, she opened the door and took a step. She said to herself and the sky, “Your flame will not die. I will not forget the light.”