The Light Sitting on the Floor With You

The house is quiet now, finally. You watched their chest rise and fall, small and steady, while your own stomach cramped with a hollow ache you tried to ignore.

You told them you already ate. You smiled while your body whispered the truth you couldn't afford to speak.

The sun is coming up, gray and tentative, painting the edges of the room where you sit holding this secret. There is a bread that does not run out, a water that wells up from a place deeper than your empty cup.

You did not fail them by being hungry; you loved them by pretending you were full. The light is not scolding you for the empty pantry.

It is sitting right here on the floor with you, in the silence before the day begins, ready to break itself open so you never have to pretend again.