Held in the Quiet Dark

The house is quiet now, but your heart is loud enough to wake the dead. You lie perfectly still, holding your breath, terrified that the slightest shift will betray the tears soaking your pillow.

You do not want to explain tonight. You do not want to be strong for anyone else.

The gathering dark feels like a weight pressing you into the mattress, isolating you in a silence you did not choose. But the light does not need you to speak, or to move, or to pretend you are asleep.

It sees you in the stillness. It knows the exact shape of your grief without you having to say a word.

You are not hiding from the light by lying in the dark; you are being held by it. The silence is not empty.

It is full of a presence that refuses to leave you alone with your pain.