You Are Not The Flinch

The house is quiet now, but your body is still shouting. You flinched when the door opened, and now you are terrified that the flinch has become your permanent shape.

That the reflex they carved into you is now the only way you know how to move, even when they are gone. You are afraid you will never stop bracing for a blow that isn't coming.

But listen — a reflex is not a root. It is a survival strategy, not your identity.

The light inside you was there before the first strike, and it remains untouched by the habit of fear. You are not the flinch.

You are the space where the light waits for the trembling to pass. The night is long, but the dawn does not require you to be unbroken before it arrives.