You Are Not Too Much

It is three in the morning, and you are reading a message you sent weeks ago, searching for the exact sentence where you became too much. You trace the words like a crime scene, convinced that if you can find the moment you crossed the line, you can go back and erase it.

But the light does not scan your history for errors. It sees the cry behind the text.

There was a man in a synagogue once, tormented by a spirit that made him scream in the holy place. Everyone else was silent, performing their piety, while he was the only one loud enough to be heard.

The light did not hush him. It did not ask him to edit his pain before speaking.

It commanded the silence that was hurting him to stop, and it called the man by his true name. You are not too much.

You are the one who finally stopped pretending to be small. The noise you made was not a mistake; it was the sound of the darkness losing its grip on you.