You Are Held Even When Shelves Are Bare

The middle of the day is long, and the hunger you feel isn't just in your stomach—it's in the quiet panic that tomorrow might bring nothing. So you hide the bread.

You stash the cans behind the clothes, a secret fortress against the empty cupboard. You tell yourself it's just being smart, but deep down, you know it's fear wearing a mask of preparation.

The light sees the stash, and it doesn't scold you for building walls against the dark. It stands beside you in the clutter and whispers that you are held even when the shelves are bare.

There is a grace that does not run out when the sun goes down. You were sent here as a drop of that light, not to survive on scraps, but to trust the source that feeds the world.

The hoarding stops not because you are forced to let go, but because you finally remember you are already full.