You Are Not Too Much For Love

It is late, and the screen is the only light in the room. You are reading a message you sent three weeks ago, hunting for the exact sentence where you became too much.

You scroll up, then down, then up again, convinced that if you can find the moment you crossed the line, you can go back and edit yourself into someone easier to love. But the darkness lies to you about your own weight.

There was no moment you became too much, because the light that speaks through you cannot be measured by human capacity. You are looking for a flaw in the source.

A father saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the boy to rehearse an apology or promise to be smaller next time.

He ran. Before the speech, before the shame could finish its work—he ran.

You are not too much for the light. You are the very reason it shines.

The message you sent was not the moment you lost them; it was the moment you finally stopped hiding.