Holy Trembling in the Quiet

The day ends, and the armor you wore for twelve hours finally hits the floor. You are sitting at the table when someone you love asks a simple question: have you eaten?

Your hand freezes mid-reach. The spoon feels too heavy.

You are terrified that if you open your mouth, your voice will crack and betray the hollow ache in your stomach. You have spent all day performing okayness, and now the performance is over.

The light does not need you to speak. It does not need you to explain the hunger or justify the silence.

It sees the trembling hand and calls it holy. There is a love that knows you better than you know yourself, and it is not afraid of your emptiness.

You do not have to feed it with words. You only have to let it sit with you in the quiet.