I was promised a night of chandeliers, ‎silk gowns spilling like galaxies, ‎and the trembling courage of hands meeting hands. ‎ ‎But every spring ‎my ticket led only to the roof— ‎shingles for pews, ‎the stars keeping slow rhythm ‎while the gym floor devoured the music below. ‎ ‎Laughter poured from open windows, ‎a perfume I could not touch. ‎Corsages glowed on wrists, ‎couples spun in quiet orbit, ‎their smiles rehearsed, yet real. ‎ ‎And I, ‎I was the lone planet, ‎circling borrowed moons, ‎invisible gravity pulling me just out of reach. ‎ ‎Each prom a mirror I never entered, ‎a tux waiting in a shop I never crossed, ‎a slow song without my name, ‎a crown made for the bold, ‎not for ghosts like me. ‎ ‎So I stayed on the roof, ‎mapping constellations of other people’s joy, ‎listening to glass-shard music drift upward, ‎learning the ache of absence, ‎making peace with witnessing ‎the beauty that never touched my hands. ‎ ‎Prom was theirs. ‎Mine was the night sky, ‎a ballroom with no doors, ‎where I danced with silence ‎and silence always said yes. ‎