Light Sitting in the Empty Space

The morning light hits the table, and your hand reaches for a cup that isn't there. You grasp only air.

That hollow shock—the sudden realization that the thing you relied on is gone—is the mask cracking before the day even begins. You are supposed to be okay now.

Supposed to be functional. But the phantom limb of your grief twitches, and you are left holding nothing.

In that empty space, the light does not scold you for reaching. It sits with you in the silence of the missing thing.

There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even the world where the cup is gone. The light was there before the loss, and it is there in the empty air your hand just closed around.

You are not defined by what you cannot hold.