You Are the Light Walking Through

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with the rehearsal of a moment that happened hours ago. You are freezing the exact second you stumbled, magnifying the micro-expression you imagine someone wore.

That flicker of pity. That split-second of amusement.

You play it on a loop, convinced that this tiny gesture defines how they see you forever. But the darkness is a liar; it takes a shadow and makes it a monster.

The light that lives inside you does not see that moment the way your shame does. It sees the stumble, yes, but it also sees the getting up.

And in the eyes of the light, there is no pity, no amusement—only a fierce, quiet knowing that you are still walking. The expression you fear was never there, or if it was, it has already dissipated into the night.

You are not the stumble. You are the light that walks through it.