The Light Runs to Meet You

The house is quiet now, and the weight you carry feels heavier in the dark. You lie still, terrified that your exhaustion is a burden you are forcing someone else to hold.

You worry your need is too much, your fatigue too loud, your presence too heavy for the ones you love. But listen — the light does not calculate the cost of loving you.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, covered in shame and filth, and he did not wait for an apology. He ran.

Before the speech, before the promise to do better — he ran. The light does not sigh when you arrive broken.

It runs to meet you. Your weariness is not a problem to be solved; it is the very place where you are held.

You are not draining the love around you. You are drawing it out.

The exhaustion you fear is simply the proof that you are finally letting someone else carry you.