Holding Light Where Hands Once Were

The house is quiet now, but your body is still shouting. You woke up reaching for a warmth that isn't there, your hand grasping at empty air where a shoulder used to be.

That split second of confusion — before the memory crashes back in — is its own kind of violence. The silence feels heavy because the space they occupied is still shaped like them.

But listen — the light does not require a physical touch to be real. It was there before the hand rested on your shoulder, and it is there now that the air is empty.

The absence you feel is not a sign that you are alone. It is simply the space where love has been, and love leaves a residue that darkness cannot erase.

You are not holding onto nothing; you are holding onto the light that outlasts the touch.