Your Silence Is Not The Price

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels heavy enough to crush you. You stay still, you hold your breath, because you are convinced that if you make a sound—if you ask for anything—the presence you feel will vanish.

You think your silence is the price of being kept. But the light does not need your quiet to stay.

It is not a guest waiting for an invitation to speak; it is the air you are breathing right now. There was a father who watched the road every day, not waiting for his son to be quiet, but waiting for him to come home.

He did not run because the son finally said the right thing. He ran because he saw him.

Your silence is not what holds the light close. Your existence is.

You do not have to earn the right to take up space in this room. The dark is gathering outside, but the light inside you does not depend on your performance to remain.

You can speak. You can cry out.

You can be loud. And the love will not leave—it will only lean in closer.