Habits Are Echoes of Love

The house is moving now, and you are moving with it, wearing the face that says you are fine. But your hands keep reaching for the coffee pot to turn it off, or folding that small blanket into a square that no longer holds anyone.

You are performing the shape of a life that has changed, hoping no one sees the ghost in the motion. The light does not ask you to stop remembering.

It sees the habit and calls it love. It knows the hollow space where the warmth used to be.

You do not have to explain the ache to be held by it. The mask slips, and the light is still there, waiting in the quiet gap between the doing and the being.

The habits are not failures; they are the echoes of a love that has not left.