Not brighter. Not louder. Not safer. Just… awake in a way that makes the tents stand taller and the air hum sharp against my skin, like it’s waiting for something to crack open.
I feel different, too.
The forbidden spark I gave Milo sits heavy behind my ribs, its absence a hollow that aches when I breathe. I slept curled around my jar, hoping the warmth inside would seep back into me, but Joys don’t work like that. They glow for the world—never for me.
When I sit up, my head spins. The floor tilts. I steady myself with a hand on the crate.
“You’re pale.”
Milo’s voice comes from the tent flap. I jump, my heart punching upward. He stands there awkwardly, one hand gripping the canvas like he’s afraid to enter without permission. The morning light cuts across his face, and above him—still there, still real—a tiny gold spark hovers.
“Milo,” I whisper. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “But I was worried.”
He steps inside. His presence still pulls at the light, but the hollow around him is softer today, stretched thin by the faint warmth he carries. A warmth that does not belong to him. A warmth I gave him.
He sits beside me on the floor, careful not to touch. But even sitting still, he radiates something new—uneven, flickering, but undeniably alive.
“I shouldn’t have taken it,” he murmurs. “I didn’t realize what it would do to you.”
“It was my choice,” I say.
He shakes his head. “That doesn’t make it right.”
I look at the little spark above him. It trembles, drifting slightly like it hasn’t quite learned balance yet. “It stayed,” I whisper. “Your Joy stayed.”
“Does that mean… it’s real?”
“Yes,” I say softly. “And it’s yours.”
Milo closes his eyes as if he doesn’t trust himself to look too hopeful. “I don’t know how to live with that. Feeling something after so long… It scares me.”
“Everything new is frightening at first.”
He laughs under his breath—not quite humor, but something gentler. “Joy… how do you do it? How do you wake up every day knowing you’ll never feel what you give everyone else?”
My throat tightens. “I don’t think about it,” I whisper.
“But you should.” His gaze sharpens, soft but insistent. “You deserve to feel something, too.”
My breath breaks. No one has ever said that to me—not even the Ringmaster in his kindest moments. I look away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Everything inside me goes very still. I clutch my jar against my chest, feeling bare and fragile. “I can’t feel Joy,” I whisper. “Not for myself. That’s just how it is.”
“Then I’ll feel enough for both of us,” he murmurs.
My breath catches as the spark above him flares—uncertain, imperfect, but growing.
“Milo… that’s not how this works.”
“Then teach me,” he says simply.
I look at his hands, twisting in his lap like he’s afraid they’ll break something, and the gold spark above him glowing like a promise he doesn't know he's making.
“You felt warmth once,” I say. “But it came from me. It needs to come from you now.”