The Light Sitting in Your Passenger Seat

The engine is off now. The hum that kept the world at bay has faded into a silence so heavy it feels like it might crush the roof.

You drove until the map ran out, or until your hands stopped shaking enough to let go of the wheel. And in this dark parking lot, under a streetlight that doesn't care who you are, the mask slips.

No one knows you are here. No one knows the weight you carried out of the room you just left.

You are entirely alone with the truth you have been running from. But listen — the silence is not empty.

It is full. The same light that walked the dusty roads of Galilee, the same light that wept in the garden before the end, is sitting in the passenger seat.

It does not need you to perform. It does not need you to explain why you drove away.

It simply sits with you in the dark, refusing to leave. You thought you had to be found to be loved.

You were wrong. You are already held.