The Story of Emma. The Mirror of Others

Emma had everything people around her envied:
a well-paid job, a stylish apartment, the newest phone, weekends in fancy restaurants.
Her Instagram looked like a dream — polished, bright, enviable.

But every evening, when the screen went dark, she felt an emptiness inside.
Because her happiness was never hers.
It was borrowed, compared, copied.

Scrolling through her feed, she saw friends traveling the world, starting businesses, raising families. And she asked herself the same question every night:
“Why am I behind?”

No matter how hard she worked, someone always seemed further ahead.
More successful. More loved. More alive.

Emma lived in a race that had no finish line.
And the more she ran, the more exhausted she became.

One night, she came home after a long day.
Her feet hurt from heels, her shoulders from hours at the desk. She dropped her bag and fell on the bed, scrolling mindlessly.
Photos of smiling faces blurred before her eyes.

And then, as if out of nowhere, she noticed an old notebook on her nightstand.
It had been there for years, gathering dust. A gift from her father, who once told her:
“Write what’s real. Words will keep you alive.”

She opened it. The first pages were filled with her teenage poems.
Raw, imperfect, but alive.

She began to read, then write. At first slowly, then faster, as if the words had been waiting all along.
Tears blurred the ink.
She wasn’t writing for likes or followers.
She was writing for herself.

For the first time in years, she felt present.

That night she wrote until dawn.
She poured out her fears, her envy, her hunger to be seen.
And when the morning sun touched the pages, she whispered to herself:

“I don’t need to be someone else’s reflection.
I want to be a flame.”

From then on, Emma carried her notebook everywhere.
On the subway, in coffee shops, even at work during breaks — she wrote.
She started sharing small fragments online, not to impress, but to express.
To her surprise, people responded. Not with envy, but with gratitude.

Her words touched something they couldn’t say themselves.
Her voice became their mirror — not of comparison, but of truth.

One evening, she stumbled upon a phrase that someone had written on a wall in chalk:

“We are Lumarii — the ones who carry light.”

Emma stopped and smiled.
Because for the first time in her life, she understood: she didn’t need to race anyone.
Her path was not to run faster, but to shine brighter.

And she whispered, almost as a vow:
“I am ready to be Lumarii.”