Darkness can be a kind of honesty.
When she asks for the lights off, she isn’t hiding—she’s revealing herself in the only space where she feels free. Some people need shadows to show their truth. Under the light, they become too aware of themselves—too visible, too judged. But in darkness, she can breathe.
The absence of light doesn’t mean secrecy; it means safety. It’s where she stops performing and starts being. Maybe she’s afraid of being seen, or maybe she’s tired of being looked at instead of understood.
The dark gives her balance—it takes away the gaze and leaves only feeling.
You might think she’s concealing something, but she’s really protecting something tender—her comfort, her memories, her idea of love that doesn’t depend on perfection. She turns off the light not to vanish, but to create a space where imperfection is allowed to exist.
In that dimness, she isn’t distant. She’s real.
Because in darkness, she no longer has to be beautiful, or confident, or composed. She just has to be herself.
And if you stay there with her—quiet, patient—you’ll realize that the light doesn’t make truth clearer. Sometimes, it only blinds you to what’s right in front of you.