Light Moves Into The Wreckage

The day is done, and the armor you wore since sunrise finally hits the floor. Now the silence rushes in, and with it comes the fear: if they saw the mess inside, they would leave.

You have spent hours curating the version of you that is safe to love, terrified that the real you is too broken to stay. But there is a voice that speaks into this exact exhale, saying, "I knew you before the mask was ever made, and I am still here." The light does not flee from the wreckage; it moves in.

It does not ask you to clean up the room before it sits at the table. It pulls up a chair in the dust and calls you friend.

The darkness has not overcome the truth of who you are. You are not a project to be fixed before you are worthy of company.

You are the place where the light has chosen to dwell.