Stop Practicing Your Exit

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with the speech you are writing for a door that hasn't opened. You rehearse the apology until the words lose their meaning, convinced that your absence is the only clean gift you have left to give them.

But the light does not require you to vanish to make space for its work. There was a man who sat in the tombs, screaming and broken, convinced he was too dangerous to be near anyone — yet the light sat down right beside him and called him friend.

You are not the chaos that needs to be removed. You are the one being held.

The verdict your fear delivers in the dark is not the final word — the light sees the whole truth and calls you beloved anyway. Stop practicing your exit.

The only gift worthy of them is you, staying.