The Light Does Not Pack Its Bags

The house is quiet, but your mind is screaming. You lie still, terrified that the person beside you can hear the cracks in your performance, that they are silently packing their bags while you pretend to sleep.

You feel like a fraud in your own bed, waiting for the moment they realize you are not enough and walk away. But listen — the light does not pack its bags when it sees your shadows.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in filth, still rehearsing his apology. He did not wait for the speech.

He ran. The light is not looking for a reason to leave; it is looking for a way to run toward you.

Your fear says they are slipping away. The truth says you are already held.

The one who knows every crack is the one who refuses to let go.