The Light Runs Toward Your Tremble

The afternoon is long, and the silence of the room gives your own voice too much space to echo. You replay the exact tone you used when you asked for help, convinced it sounded pathetic, desperate, weak.

But the light does not measure your worth by the steadiness of your voice. It hears the cry beneath the tremble.

There is a promise that whatever is hidden is meant to be disclosed, and whatever is concealed is meant to be brought out into the open. Your desperation was not a failure of dignity — it was the truth finally breaking surface.

The light does not recoil from the shake in your hands. It runs toward it.

You were not too much. You were finally real.