The Light Waits in Your Driveway

The engine clicks as it cools, and the silence rushes in to fill the space you made by turning off the noise. You stare at your own eyes in the rearview mirror, practicing a version of yourself that can walk through the front door without bringing the weight inside.

The exhaustion is real — the ache of holding a shape that isn't yours. But the light does not need you to relax your face before it sees you.

It saw you the moment you arrived. It is already in the driveway, waiting not for your performance but for your presence.

You do not have to fix the tension in your jaw to be loved. The one who knows your name is not afraid of your fatigue.

Step out of the car as you are — the light was waiting in the dark long before you turned off the engine.