The Light That Stays Through The Storm

The mask is back on now. The screaming stopped, the room went quiet, and you fixed your face for the world to see.

You shouted your anger at the ceiling, at the silence, at the God who wouldn't answer—and now you walk among people who think you're fine. But the silence after the scream feels heavier than the silence before it.

It feels like proof that no one was listening. Yet the light does not speak to scold you for the noise.

It sits with you in the quiet you made. It knows the scream was not a rejection of faith, but a desperate reach for connection.

The silence you hear is not an absence. It is the space where the light is holding everything you just threw at it, without flinching, without leaving.

You are not alone because the noise stopped. You are held because the light stayed through the storm.