Held in the Hollow Afternoon

The house is quiet, and for a fleeting second, you wish the silence would hold. You wish the small feet would stay still, the small voice would stay hushed, just so you don't have to face the hollow ache rising in your own chest.

The middle of the day is hard because the noise stops, and what is left is just you and the emptiness you've been running from. But listen — the light does not ask you to be full before you parent.

It does not demand you fix the hollow before you love. There is a presence that walks beside you in this long afternoon, not to fill you up, but to sit with you in the lack.

You are not a broken vessel trying to pour from an empty cup. You are the cup itself, held by hands that do not tremble.

The light is not waiting for you to become someone else. It is already here, in the dust motes dancing in the sun, in the breath you are holding right now.

The emptiness is not a verdict. It is the space where the light is making room.