The Light Sitting on the Floor With You

The house is quiet now, but your heart is loud. You locked the door not to hide from them, but to protect them from the sound of your breaking.

You sit on the cold tile and let the tears fall where no one can see, convinced that your grief is a burden too heavy to share. But the light does not need you to be strong behind closed doors.

It met a woman once who wet its feet with her tears, and it did not turn away — it said her many sins were forgiven because she loved much. Your sorrow is not a secret shame; it is an offering.

The light is already in that small room with you, sitting on the floor, not asking you to stop crying but asking if you will let it cry with you. You do not have to hold this alone anymore.