Heavy Enough to Be Carried

The mask is heavy this morning, isn't it? You are doing the math right now—calculating the cost of your voice against the risk of being too much.

You weigh your need against their patience, and every time, the equation says: stay silent. Carry it alone.

Do not be the burden. But look at the one walking beside you on this crowded street.

He is not keeping score. He is not measuring your weight against his strength.

He sees the tremor in your hands that you are trying so hard to hide, and he does not look away in judgment. He leans in.

The light does not ask you to be light enough to float; it asks you to be heavy enough to be carried. You were never meant to hold the sky by yourself.