The Light Sitting on the Edge of Your Bed

The house is quiet, but your mind is screaming the name of what they found. You are holding a diagnosis in the dark that no one else knows yet, and the weight of it feels like it might crush the ribs that try to contain it.

In this deepest hour, the silence is not empty; it is a holding space for the things too heavy for daylight. The light did not flee when the report came in.

It sat down on the edge of the bed with you. It is not afraid of the words the doctor wrote.

There is a peace that does not require the storm to end before it arrives—a peace that sits inside the storm and breathes when you cannot. You do not have to carry this alone in the dark.

The light is already here, holding the fear you haven't spoken yet.