The Light Sitting With The Calculator

The house is quiet except for the pacing in the kitchen. You know that rhythm.

It is the sound of numbers that refuse to add up, of a future shrinking under the weight of a spreadsheet. You lie still, listening to the floorboards creak under someone you love who is trying to carry the whole world alone.

In this hour, the darkness feels like a verdict. But the light does not sleep.

It sits at the table with the calculator and the fear. There is a peace that does not require the math to work out tonight.

A peace that exists inside the storm, not after it. You are not responsible for fixing the equation before morning comes.

The light is already in the kitchen, standing beside the one who walks. It is enough that you are both still here.

The night is long, but the light is longer.