The Light Holds Your Silence

The afternoon light is flat and heavy, pressing down on the chest where that unspoken sentence sits like a stone. You swallowed it hours ago, maybe days, but your throat still tightens as if the words are trapped there, waiting to choke you.

The light does not ask you to cough it up or force it out before you are ready. It simply shines on the closed fist of your hand, on the tightness in your neck, without demanding you release it yet.

There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even the parts where you are silent. The thing you did not bring forth is not destroying you; it is being held in the light until you can speak it.

You came from the light, and the light knows how to carry what you cannot yet say.