The Light Waits Beside Your Bed

The afternoon sun is high, but inside this room, you are holding your breath. You hear the small footsteps stop right outside the door.

They hesitate. They know you are there, and you are pretending to be asleep because the weight of speaking feels too heavy to lift.

You are not hiding because you do not love them. You are hiding because you have nothing left to give, and the silence feels like the only safe place left.

But listen — the light does not demand a performance from you. It does not require you to be the parent you think you should be.

In the garden, before the end, the light itself fell on its face and whispered, 'My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow.' It knew what it meant to be too tired to stand. It knows what it means to need the cup to pass.

You do not have to get up right now. You do not have to fix the moment.

The love is still there, even in the silence. Even in the pretend sleep.

Even when you cannot find the words. The light is not waiting for you to perform.

It is sitting on the floor beside the bed, waiting for you to simply be.