The Candle That Flickered Longer
The Candle That Flickered Longer
The smallest sources of light often burn the longest. Stillness, softness, and being seen without shouting is its own kind of magic.
Lucy Tran’s apartment smelled like vanilla, lavender, and a little bit of nervous energy.
The vanilla and lavender came from her favorite candle — a short, glass-jar one she always lit during moments of transition. Job interviews, full moons, Sunday night journaling… and now, tonight. The nervous energy, however, came from inside her.
She stood in front of her closet, half-dressed, hair in velcro rollers, trying to decide between two nearly identical skirts — one navy, one soft gray. “Why am I like this?” she whispered to no one, holding both skirts up and realizing she looked like she was about to give a TED Talk on subtle color palettes.
Tonight was the school’s staff appreciation banquet. Normally, Lucy enjoyed this event from the sidelines — sitting at a back table with the speech therapists and library aides, sipping cranberry juice and cheering for the teachers who always got called up. But this year, things were different.
This year, she was being honored.
It wasn’t anything huge. Just a short award — "Counselor of the Year" — handed out by the principal and followed by a little speech, if she chose to give one. But for Lucy, whose idea of public speaking was saying “here” during roll call in college, this felt like accepting an Oscar.
She chose the gray skirt.
As she stepped into it, she paused to reach for the piece of clothing that always helped her feel a little more put together: her shapewear. It wasn’t fancy or fashionable — just a soft, seamless piece she’d bought years ago and replaced twice since. The kind of thing no one ever saw but that made her feel grounded.
Lucy never thought of it as “sucking her in” or hiding anything. She liked how it gently held her posture, how it made her skirt fall just a little more smoothly, how it felt — oddly — like she was being hugged. On days like today, when her thoughts were spinning too fast, she needed that.
She exhaled as she rolled it on. “Armor,” she whispered, half-joking.
Her apartment, small but carefully curated, felt like another version of that armor. The framed print of a girl reading under a tree, the stack of library books next to her bed, the mug collection shaped like famous women’s faces — all of it added up to something solid. Something safe. Something hers.
After fixing her hair and slipping into her soft gray sweater (the one that never pilled, thank goodness), she lit her candle one more time and gave herself a look in the mirror.
“I look… fine,” she said, then smiled. “Actually, I look like someone who knows what she’s doing.” That was new.
She grabbed her speech notes — scribbled on a notecard — and headed out the door.
The banquet hall was already buzzing when Lucy arrived. Twinkle lights looped around potted trees, the tables were covered in white linen, and a small jazz band played near the buffet line. The room smelled like gardenias, meatballs, and warm bread rolls. It was charming in a slightly overambitious PTA kind of way.
“Lucy!” Carla, the third-grade teacher, waved her over. “You look so elegant!”
Lucy flushed. “Thanks! So do you.” She tried not to fidget, but her hands were a little shaky. She clutched her little note card like it was a lifeline. Her shapewear hugged her gently, a quiet reminder that she was not going to float away.
As people filed in, Lucy found herself talking more than usual. People were kind — “So proud of you,” “Well deserved,” “You’ve helped so many kids this year.” And while part of her wanted to brush off the praise with a joke, another part — a newer part — said thank you and tried to believe it.
She took her seat at a table near the front, alongside a science teacher she liked and the new speech therapist who always wore galaxy-print earrings.
And then, the principal stepped up to the microphone.
“Tonight,” he said, “we’re recognizing someone whose kindness and quiet strength have changed the lives of countless students and families. She doesn’t ask for attention. She rarely takes credit. But we see her. And we’re so lucky she’s here.”
Lucy felt her heart leap. That was her.
“Please join me in celebrating our Counselor of the Year… Lucy Tran.”
Applause echoed through the room. She stood slowly, her knees trembling just a bit — not from fear, but from awe. She walked to the front, feeling every step, the warmth of her shapewear keeping her upright. It didn’t matter what size she was or whether her sweater was trendy — she felt centered. Supported.
When she reached the mic, she looked out and saw so many kind eyes looking back.
She took a breath and read her card.
“Thank you for this honor,” she began. “It means more than I can say. I believe every student deserves to be seen and heard — even if it’s just for five minutes a day. I feel lucky to work alongside people who care so deeply. Thank you for letting me be a part of this.”
Her voice was clear. Her smile was real. As she returned to her seat, something inside her settled. Not everything had to be loud to be powerful.
Later that night, back at her apartment, Lucy peeled off her sweater and skirt, gently rolled down her shapewear, and let out a soft sigh of relief — the kind that came not from discomfort, but from completion. Like an exhale after something you didn’t think you could do, but did.
She changed into pajamas, warmed a cup of sleepytime tea, and sat cross-legged on her couch in the candlelight.
The candle was still flickering, burning lower now, but steady.
She thought of the note from the parent of a student she’d helped through panic attacks. The awkward but sweet hug from the sixth grader who’d once told her she was “the calmest adult ever.” The unexpected text from her little sister: “I’m proud of you.”
Lucy wasn’t flashy. She didn’t need to be. Her light — like the candle — was quiet, but constant. The kind of light that lasted.
And that, she realized, was enough.
