The Light That Lies Still With You

The afternoon stretches out, a long, flat expanse where the only safe place is the stillness of your own bed. You lie perfectly motionless, holding your breath, terrified that a single sound will bring someone to the door to see the tears you cannot stop.

In the middle of the day, while the world demands performance, you are hiding in the quiet dark of your room, pretending to sleep so no one asks why you are awake. But the light does not need you to sit up.

It does not need you to wipe your face or fix your voice before it can reach you. It slips under the doorframe like a draft, silent and unseen, and settles on the pillow beside your wet cheek.

You do not have to move for it to find you. The light is already there, lying still with you in the silence you created to survive.

It knows exactly how heavy your body feels and how loud the crying sounds inside your own head. And it is not waiting for you to get up.

It is keeping watch while you rest. The safest place in the world is not the silence you are forcing; it is the presence that refuses to leave you there.