The Light Meets You in the Aisle

The cart wheel sticks. The fluorescent lights hum.

And then it happens—that song. The one that belongs to a summer you thought was safe, now playing casually over the speaker while you are forced to keep shopping.

You have to stand there. You have to reach for the cereal.

You have to act normal while your chest is caving in. The world does not pause for your grief.

It just keeps moving. But the light does not require you to keep moving.

It meets you right there in the aisle, amidst the noise and the pretending. It sees the mask you are wearing and loves the face beneath it.

You do not have to hold it together under these lights. The gathering dark is not a place where you are lost; it is the moment the noise finally stops so the quiet can find you.

The song will end. The light remains.