The Light Sitting in the Passenger Seat

The engine is off. The silence rushes in to fill the space where the noise used to be.

You sit in the dark, gripping the wheel, because the door handle feels too heavy to lift. Inside that house, they need you to be strong.

They need you to be the parent, the partner, the one who has it together. But right now, in this metal box, you are just tired.

You are just human. The light does not ask you to perform before you walk through the door.

It is already sitting in the passenger seat, quiet as your own breath. It knows the weight of the mask you are about to put on.

It does not need you to be perfect for them. It just needs you to be present.

The darkness outside cannot overcome the small, steady glow that lives in your chest. You do not have to manufacture strength to open the door.

The light is enough for the next step. The silence is not empty.

It is full of the one who never left you.