waking up and realizing the silence between you is now a permanent address you both live in

The afternoon light is flat and heavy, exposing the dust motes dancing in the silence where a voice used to be. You wake up, make coffee, and realize the quiet is no longer a temporary visitor—it has unpacked its bags and moved into the walls.

It is the address you both live in now, separated by an invisible distance that no amount of routine can bridge. But listen—there is a bread that does not stale and a water that does not run dry, waiting for the one who is thirsty enough to ask.

The silence feels permanent because you are looking at the empty chair, but the light is not in the chair; it is in the space between, holding you both even when you cannot feel the connection. You do not have to fill the quiet with noise to prove you are alive.

The light is already speaking in the stillness, sustaining what looks like an ending.