The Light Sitting With You in Dark

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels like an accusation. You helped everyone else carry their weight, but now that your hands are empty, you are terrified someone will see the shaking.

You wait for the rescue that always came, but tonight, the door does not open. The light is not gone — it has simply stopped performing for the crowd.

It is sitting with you in the dark, refusing to fix what needs to be felt first. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, and before the apology could be spoken, he ran.

He did not wait for the performance to end. He ran to the mess.

You do not have to earn the right to be held when you cannot help. The terror of being found out is the lie that you must be useful to be loved.

The light knows you are tired, and it loves you more in the breaking than in the fixing.