You Do Not Have to Get It Right

The engine is off now, but the argument is still running hot inside your head. You are rehearsing the exact sentence you should have said, whispering it to the steering wheel until your voice cracks.

You are trying to rewrite a scene that has already closed, polishing a stone that will never fit the hole. But listen — the light does not need your perfect defense.

It came for the ones who know they are messy, not the ones who have their script memorized. There is a version of you that exists before the apology, before the explanation, before the clever retort.

And that version is already held. The silence in this car is not empty; it is full of a presence that heard every cracked whisper and did not turn away.

You do not have to get it right to be loved. You only have to be here, in the quiet, with the door closed and the engine cold.