You Do Not Have to Bleed

The house is quiet, and your mind begins to invent a storm just to see if anyone will run for cover with you. You poke the wound.

You raise your voice. You manufacture a crisis because silence feels like abandonment, and you need to know they care enough to stay.

But the light does not need your noise to remain present. It was there before you spoke, and it is there now in the stillness.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — he did not wait for the apology, he did not wait for the speech. He ran.

The light does the same. It does not wait for you to break something to prove it will hold the pieces.

It is already holding you. You do not have to bleed to be believed.