Borrowed Joy

I noticed her the moment I sat down. Maybe it was the way her shoulders shook when she laughed, or maybe it was the way her smile lit up the room, quick, bright, almost reckless, like she was borrowing joy from somewhere she couldn’t afford to keep. You could not see it when she was laughing that warm, infectious laugh, the kind that makes strangers briefly believe the world is softer than it is. But when she sat still, when the noise around her faded into the background hum of cups clinking and low conversations, you could see it. Her hand shook a little when she held the spoon. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe, but I noticed. It was the kind of noticing that doesn’t ask permission. Her round face looked slightly drooped when the laughter left her, like something heavy had returned to its rightful place. Sadness, tiredness, or something more complicated that doesn’t fit neatly into words.

I...