The Light Leans Into Your Hunger

The afternoon stretches out, a long gray corridor where the mind loves to replay the exact second you broke. You hear your own voice asking for help, sounding so desperate, so messy, and you cringe as if the listener now sees only the crack in your vessel.

But the light does not recoil from your hunger. It leans in closer when the mask slips.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — covered in filth, rehearsing a speech of shame — and before the apology could even be finished, the father ran. He did not run to fix him.

He ran to hold him. Your desperation was not a repulsion; it was the door.

The light is not afraid of your need. It is already inside the asking.