The light bulb flickers, casting dancing shadows on Sarah’s wall. How many nights has she spent staring at that ordinary light fixture, watching it struggle against the inevitable darkness? Ten years? Twenty? Time feels fluid here in her small apartment, memories flowing like water through her fingers.

“You should replace that bulb,” Michael used to say, his voice echoing from somewhere in her consciousness. Always practical, always trying to fix things. Fix her.

“I like it this way,” she would reply, watching the way the unstable light painted his face in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. “It reminds me that nothing stays constant.”

The conversation plays on repeat in her mind as she lies on her bed, letting the rhythmic pulse of the dying bulb wash over her. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like a heartbeat. Like time passing.

“Sarah?” Emma’s voice breaks through her reverie, her roommate’s concerned face appearing in the doorway. “Are you okay? You’ve been in here all afternoon.”

Sarah turns her head slowly, watching how the light catches in Emma’s auburn hair. “Do you ever wonder if we’re all just like that light bulb? Burning bright until we start to fade?”

Emma steps into the room, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”

The light flickers more intensely, as if in response. Sarah closes her eyes, seeing Michael’s face projected on her eyelids. His smile. The way he would run his fingers through his hair when he was nervous. The last time she saw him, walking away down that rain-slicked street.

“He always wanted to change everything,” Sarah whispers. “The light bulb. Me. Us. But some things aren’t meant to be fixed.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Emma suggests gently. “Change can be good.”

Sarah opens her eyes, watching the persistent light bulb continue its dance. “But what if the beauty is in the imperfection? What if the flicker is what makes it special?”

The room falls silent except for the soft hum of electricity. Emma reaches out, squeezing Sarah’s hand. “You know, most people would have replaced that bulb years ago.”

“Most people would have moved on by now too,” Sarah laughs softly, but there’s no bitterness in it anymore. Just understanding. “But I’m not most people.”

The light bulb sputters dramatically, then stabilizes again. Sarah sits up, pulling her knees to her chest. “It’s funny. Everyone told me it would burn out eventually. The light. The memories. The feeling. But here we are, still flickering.”

Emma stands, moving toward the door. She pauses in the threshold, looking back at her friend. “Maybe that’s your answer then. Some lights never really go out. They just change how they shine.”

Sarah watches her go, then returns her gaze to the persistent light bulb. It continues its uneven dance, casting shadows that seem to hold all her memories, all her maybes, all her might-have-beens. And for the first time in years, she thinks maybe that’s enough.

The light flickers once more, steady and familiar, illuminating the path forward one uncertain pulse at a time.