The Light Does Not Flinch From You

The hand reaches out, then freezes in the air. You pull it back before the touch lands, terrified that the person you love will flinch.

That their body will recoil from yours as if you were the danger. So you stay in the dark, holding your own weight, convinced that silence is safer than the risk of rejection.

But listen — the light does not flinch. It entered the prison of the body and said, 'Wake up,' even while you were still chained in the deep sleep of forgetting.

It did not wait for you to be clean or steady or unafraid. It reached through the fear.

The hand that trembles is still a hand of love. And the one you are afraid to touch is likely waiting in the same silence, hoping you will not pull away.