A glow called Shivangini

You are the festival of lights. Not in gold or orange, not in lamps or fireworks… but in the way the air seems to bend around you, like it already knows the warmth you carry. Every flicker, every flame, every shadow stretches toward you, because you are the spark that makes the world stop for a moment, the quiet fire that hangs around long after everything else has gone. You carry a glow that seeps into hearts, that seeps into the corners one never could otherwise feel. You make the night feel alive, the silence feel like it’s waiting for you, the ordinary feel like it’s sacred. To look at you is to feel the world bend - not in awe, not in fear, but in the soft surrender of everything wanting to be closer to you. You are home and horizon, storm and calm, a light that stays and quietly breaks every part open.