The Light Is Already Sitting Across From You

The pot is empty now. The burner is cold.

But your hands moved on their own, reaching for a second plate, a second glass, a second set of silverware. Muscle memory is a cruel thing when the house is this quiet.

You set the table for a ghost. Or for a hope that didn't show up.

Then you stop. You look at the extra chair.

The silence rushes in to fill the space where a voice should be. It feels like a mistake.

Like you forgot something important. But you didn't forget.

You remembered who you are before the room went dark. You set a place because your heart knows how to host.

Because you were made to share. The light inside you does not shrink just because the room is empty.

It waits. It keeps the table ready not for a stranger, but for the part of you that needs to be fed tonight.

Sit down. Eat what you made.

The light is already sitting across from you.