You feel small. Every bit. Chunk. Of yourself feels like a fog, like life is glazed over with a perpetual gray. As you watch everyone around, knowing they are without that fog, it collapses a bit of your heart. That's what makes you small. To know that what made you alive is not there, not a held lovely, and that no one shall see that place. You sit uncomfortable among the comforted. And in that you cannot feel the light supposedly inside.