The Light Lies Down Beside You

The afternoon stretches out, long and heavy, and you are lying perfectly still so no one feels the tremor running through you. You are memorizing the doctor's voice, replaying every syllable, every pause, every shift in tone, trying to find a loophole in the diagnosis.

The middle of the day is often the hardest part, because the world expects you to be moving, to be productive, to be fine. But you are holding your breath, carrying a weight that feels too large for one body.

You do not have to solve this right now. You do not have to fix the future before the sun goes down.

There is a peace that does not depend on the news being good, a stillness that exists even while you shake. The light is not asking you to stop trembling.

It is lying down beside you in the quiet, holding the fear you cannot carry alone. You are not defined by the verdict you heard, but by the presence that stays when the room goes silent.