The Light Holding You in the Ache

The morning light is already on the floorboards, but the space beside you feels heavy with a silence that isn't empty. You roll over and your hand finds only the sheet, a phantom weight where a hand should be.

It is the hardest kind of tiredness, putting on the face that says you are fine while carrying a ghost in your palm. The world expects you to perform okayness, to smile at the coffee shop and answer emails as if your heart isn't still in the bedroom.

But the light does not need your performance. It sees the mask, and it loves what is behind it more than the smile you wear.

There is a truth that lives in you, and it will be with you forever, even when the bed feels too wide. You do not have to hold the weight alone today.

The ache is not a sign that the light has left; it is the place where the light is holding you most tightly.