Love That Does Not Flinch When You Do

The hand reaches out, and your whole body pulls back before your mind can speak. Your skin remembers the cold shoulder, the turned back, the times you were left alone in the dark more vividly than it remembers being held.

It is a reflex born of survival, not a failure of faith. But tonight, as the shadows gather, know that there is a love that does not flinch when you do.

It saw you before you even learned to hide. It knows the exact moment you decided to pull away, and it has not moved an inch.

The light is not waiting for your muscles to relax. It is already inside the tension, holding you while you brace yourself.

You do not have to stop trembling to be safe. The gathering dark cannot extinguish what lives in your bones.