The Light Waits While You Rest

The house is quiet now, except for the soft rustle of clean sheets being folded in the other room. You lie still, eyes shut, pretending to be asleep so you do not have to meet their gaze.

The distance between the bed and the chair feels like miles of dark water. But listen — the light does not need you to open your eyes to see you.

It is already in the room, sitting on the edge of the mattress, waiting for the moment you are ready to stop performing. You are not hiding from the love that fills this house; you are just tired.

And the light knows the difference between hiding and resting. It will wait until you are ready to turn over.

The silence is not empty; it is full of the one who never left.