The Light Waits For Your Safety

The hug comes, and your body remembers before your mind does. You flinch.

You pull back. You brace for an impact that isn't coming.

In the bright light of this morning, that reflex feels like a failure—a crack in the mask you wore so well all day. But listen.

The light does not demand that you stand still while the past rushes at you. It knows why you stepped aside.

It knows the hands that taught you to duck. There is a love that does not startle the soul.

It waits. It watches you from across the room, patient as the sun rising over a field it has already warmed.

You do not have to force your arms open today. You do not have to pretend the flinch didn't happen.

The light sees the wound that made you jump, and it is not offended by your protection. It is simply waiting for the moment when your body believes, finally, that it is safe to stay.