The Light Rises With You

The afternoon sun is high, and so are you, but the air up here feels thin and cold. You climbed because you had to, because the light inside you demanded growth, and now you stand on a ledge where the view is terrifyingly clear.

The silence of this height makes you wonder if you have risen too far to be held, if your success has made you a stranger to the love that once felt so close. But listen — the light does not recede when you ascend; it rises with you.

There was a man who climbed a sycamore tree just to catch a glimpse, small and exposed above the crowd, and the light stopped in the middle of the road, looked up, and called him by name. It did not ask him to come down first.

It invited itself to his house while he was still perched in the branches, still awkward, still climbing. You have not climbed out of reach.

The love you fear you've lost is the very thing that pushed you upward, and it is standing at the foot of your ladder, waiting to join you. The higher you go, the more visible you become to the one who never lost sight of you.