The Light Sits With You In The Missing

The room is loud, and for a split second, the laughter catches you off guard. You turn to share it, to lock eyes with the one person who always understood the joke, and your hand reaches for empty air.

That is the exhale. That is the moment the armor drops and the absence rushes in to fill the space where a shoulder used to be.

You are standing in a crowd, yet you are suddenly, violently alone. But listen — the light does not require a witness to be real.

It was there before the laughter started, and it is there now, in the silence of that empty space. You do not need to fill the gap with noise or pretend the seat isn't vacant.

The light sits with you in the missing. It knows the shape of the absence because it knows the shape of you.

You are not alone in the turning; you are held in the reaching.