The Light Sits With Your Flinch

The hand rises to embrace you, and your body flinches before your mind can catch up. It is a reflex born of old fire, a muscle memory that mistakes kindness for the prelude to pain.

In the gathering dark, this betrayal feels absolute, as if your own skin has turned against you. But listen — the light does not demand you unlearn this tonight.

It sits with you in the flinch. It knows the difference between the wound and the hand that wants to heal it.

You do not have to force yourself to stay still. You do not have to apologize for the tremor.

The light is patient enough to wait until your nervous system believes that this touch is safe. It is not offended by your survival.

It is simply present, proving by its staying power that not every approach ends in an attack. The body remembers the hurt, yes.

But it can also learn, slowly, that the night does not always bring the blow.