The Light Walks on Your Water

The afternoon sun is bright, but it casts long shadows where you hide the fact that you are sinking. You are terrified that if you wake someone up to say you're drowning, they will finally pack their bags and leave.

So you tread water alone, smiling at the surface while your lungs burn. But listen — the light does not run from the water.

It walks on it. There was a moment when the storm rose up and the light was asleep in the back of the boat, not because it didn't care, but because it knew the water could not win.

You think your need is too heavy, too messy, too much for anyone to carry. You believe that showing the depth of your pain will be the thing that breaks the connection.

Yet the truth is simpler and far more dangerous to the darkness: the ones who are meant to stay will not leave when you scream for help. They will jump in.

The light is not looking for a perfect swimmer. It is looking for the one who is willing to be found.

Your cry is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of being carried.