The Light Inside Your Silent Throat

The house is quiet now, but your throat feels full of things you couldn't say. It feels like swallowing glass just to look someone in the eye.

You are still here, holding the weight of words that never made it out. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

The light does not wait for you to find the right words. It meets you in the silence.

It knows the ache of the unsaid. You do not have to force the glass down.

You do not have to explain the silence to be held. The light is already inside your throat, softer than any word you could speak.

It has been there all along, waiting for you to stop trying to earn it. Tonight, the silence is not a wall.

It is a door.