On Borrowed Light: Shifting Perspectives as a Storyteller

On Borrowed Light: A Note from the Author

In most of my stories within the Garratyverse, Jim Garraty holds the narrative reins. We share a lens—male, introspective, fumbling toward clarity—and over time, that alignment has become both natural and intuitive. Writing from Jim’s point of view is like tuning an old, familiar radio: I know where the static lives and how to find the signal.

But intimacy—real intimacy—is never a one-way transmission. And for all that Jim reveals, I realized there were truths about these moments, about him, that only someone else could name. Someone who saw him without history’s weight on his shoulders. Someone like Kelly Moore.

This short scene, Soft Light, Quiet Courage, is an experiment in shifting perspective—not just in gender, but in emotional vantage. It’s Kelly’s turn at the mic. It’s her story, even if Jim’s in it.

Writing from her point of view wasn’t easy. It asked me to trust quiet observation, to step outside the familiar rhythms of Jim’s internal voice and into a space where gentleness is active, and awareness is its own kind of strength. It’s not omniscient. It’s not flashy. It’s just…present.

If it feels different, that’s the point. Because sometimes, to see someone clearly, we have to let someone else do the looking.

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Soft Light, Quiet Courage
Kelly’s Perspective

He stepped inside like he wasn’t quite sure he belonged. His eyes moved over everything—the piano, the books stacked sideways, the lavender sprig in the jelly jar next to the stereo. He didn’t make a single joke about the crooked lampshade or the milk crate bookshelf. Didn’t pretend not to notice the faint scent of lemon cleaner and reheated rice. He just looked around like it was a story he hadn’t heard yet.

A man had never looked at my apartment that way. Not like he was casing it or judging it—more like he was absorbing it.

And that’s when I saw it.

Not in anything he said. Just… how still he stood. Hands at his sides. Shoulders slightly hunched. Like he’d crossed a threshold and didn’t want to track in something he wasn’t supposed to.

He’d never been in a girl’s bedroom before. Not like this. Not as himself. Not without bravado or teasing or expectation. That realization settled gently in my chest—not as power, but as tenderness.

“I’ve got something better than Bud,” I said from the kitchen, like I hadn’t just seen a soft truth unfurl in front of me.

Heineken. The clink of glass. And then, when I handed him a bottle, his fingers brushed mine—just for a second. No jolt. No romance novel electricity. Just skin. Contact. Recognition.

I watched his eyes when I walked to the stereo. Not following my body. Just… watching. Curious. Careful. Maybe a little grateful.

The An Innocent Man cassette clicked in.

Not the first track. I fast-forwarded—knew the exact amount of tape to let spin—and pressed play.

“This Night.”

The piano came in like it had been waiting for someone to hear it properly. I didn’t speak over it. I just let it fill the space. And I saw the way his shoulders lowered—not slumping, just loosening. Like the song had told him he could exhale.

I didn’t have a speech prepared. No coy glances. No careful choreography.

Just this moment.

Just this boy who hadn’t expected to be wanted tonight.

I sat across from him and waited. The quiet was comfortable. Honest.

And when I leaned in and asked, “Can I?” I already knew the answer.

His nod wasn’t confident. It wasn’t even certain. But it was open. Present. There.

I kissed him. Gently. Like I’d write it down later just to remind myself what it felt like to be chosen—by someone who didn’t even know he was allowed to choose back.

And when I stood and peeled the shirt from my body, it wasn’t seduction. It was invitation.

His eyes didn’t dart. They landed. On me. And stayed.

Not with hunger. Not with fear.

With awe.

And in that stillness, I knew: I wasn’t taking anything from him. I was letting something begin.

Not a conquest. Not a promise.

Just a kindness.

And when he reached for my hand, I let him hold it.

Because we were both learning how not to run.