The Light Does Not Demand Your Speech

The morning light hits the wall and you taste it again—the thick, metallic weight of words you swallowed yesterday. They sit on your tongue like stones you carried to bed and woke up holding.

You put on the face that says you are fine. You walk into the kitchen and perform the ordinary acts of a person who is not choking on silence.

But the mask feels heavy today. It feels like a lie you have to re-apply every hour.

You are waiting for someone to notice the struggle behind the eyes. To ask what is really wrong.

But the room stays quiet. The light does not demand a speech.

It does not require you to explain the taste in your mouth before it will stay. It simply shines on the table, on your hands, on the unspoken grief.

It is already there, waiting for you to stop performing long enough to feel it. You came from the light, and to that place you will return, regardless of the words left unsaid.