The Light Sits Beside You in the Dark

The hand reaches out, and your whole body pulls back before your mind can speak. It is not that you do not trust the person standing there.

It is that your flesh remembers a different story. A story where touch meant danger.

Where closeness meant pain. In this deepest hour, when the world is utterly still, that memory feels like the only truth you have left.

You flinch because your body is trying to keep you safe. It is doing its job.

But listen — there is a touch that does not take. A touch that does not demand.

The light entered the prison of the body and said, 'He who hears, let him get up from the deep sleep.' It did not force the door. It spoke your name until you recognized the voice.

You do not have to stop flinching tonight. You do not have to make yourself small enough to be held.

The light is not waiting for your muscles to relax. It is simply sitting beside you in the dark, waiting for you to know that you are no longer in the place where the hurt happened.

The safety is already here. Even if your hands are still shaking.