Waiting for a Table Sturdy Enough

The afternoon stretches out, a long gray corridor where you learn to swallow your own truth. You look at their smile—brittle, painted thin over exhaustion—and you decide your honesty is too heavy a stone to drop into their lap today.

So you nod. You say you're fine.

You become part of the noise instead of the signal. But listen.

The light does not need you to shatter them to be seen. It is not a hammer.

It is a quiet presence that sits with you in the unsaid. There is a courage in holding space for their fragility without losing your own center.

You are not a liar because you waited for a softer moment. You are a vessel, and the light inside you is patient enough to wait until the air is clear enough to speak.

The truth is not lost because it is delayed. It is simply waiting for a table sturdy enough to hold it.