Your Breathing Is Not A Theft

The house is quiet now, and the words you whispered to the empty hallway feel heavier than the day itself. You are saying sorry simply because you are still standing when they are not.

But listen — the light does not keep a ledger of who stays and who goes. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, covered in the dust of survival, and before the apology could even form on his lips, the father ran.

He ran because love does not wait for you to explain your existence. Your breathing is not a theft.

It is the very thing that proves the light is still working in the world. The darkness tries to convince you that your survival is a mistake, but the light knows better.

You are not the one who needs to apologize for the night.