Light Arrives Before You Are Ready

The house is still asleep, but you are already awake, standing over the sink with the water running loud enough to hide the sound of your own breaking. You stare into the mirror, and the face looking back feels like a stranger wearing your exhaustion, wearing the shame of needing to be this quiet just to fall apart.

But listen—the light did not wait for you to wash your face or fix your hair before it arrived. It is here in the steam, in the cold tile, in the space between your tears and the glass.

You do not have to compose yourself to be held. The dawn is not asking you to perform; it is simply arriving, soft and relentless, to sit with you in the mess you tried to drown out.

The sun is rising on a world that does not know you are crying, yet the light knows exactly where you are standing.