The Light Holds Your Flinch

The hand reaches out, and you flinch. It happens before you can think, a reflex born of old bruises you thought were healed.

You spend the morning smoothing your face, pretending the recoil didn't happen, pretending you are fine while your skin still remembers the fear. But the light does not mistake your flinch for rejection.

It sees the wound that made you jump, not the jump itself. There is a love that is kind to the ungrateful and the wounded alike, a love that does not require you to be brave before it comes near.

You do not have to force your hand to stay open. The light is already holding the part of you that pulled away.

The mask slips, and the love remains.