The Light Does Not Flinch At You

The afternoon light is flat and unforgiving, exposing every dust mote in the room just as your mind exposes every word you ever said. You read the message again.

And again. Searching your own sentences for the exact moment you became too much.

The moment the tone shifted. The moment you broke the unspoken rule.

You are scanning the text like a crime scene, looking for the body of your own worthiness. But the light that shines on this page does not shine to indict you.

It shines because it is already there. It was in the room when you wrote those words.

It is in the room now as you reread them. It does not flinch at your syntax.

It does not recoil from your vulnerability. The darkness you fear is not in your words—it is in the belief that your words could ever push the light away.

You are not too much for the light. The light is too vast to be crowded out by a single sentence.