You Do Not Have to Be Quiet

The hallway is narrow tonight, and you are holding your breath so the house stays asleep. You swallow the sound because you believe your grief is too loud for the walls to hold.

But listen — the light does not need silence to find you. It was there before you learned to hide.

You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord, and that origin cannot be muffled by a closed door. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world even when you are trembling in the dark.

The weeping does not drive the presence away; it invites it closer. You do not have to be quiet to be held.

The night is not a test of how well you can suffer in secret. It is the space where the mask finally falls, and the real you — the one who hurts — gets to breathe.