waking up next to a partner you no longer recognize because you both changed in different directions

The room is quiet, but the distance between your shoulders and theirs feels like miles. You look at the face you once knew by heart, and it feels like a stranger's map.

The silence is heavy, not because the light has left, but because the dark makes everything feel unfamiliar. — The light is still there.

It was there before the drift began. It is there now, in the space between you.

There is a story of a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the speech.

He ran. Before the apology, before the explanation — he ran.

The light does not wait for you to figure out the direction. It runs toward the broken place.

You are not alone in this bed. The light is the third presence, holding both of you even when you cannot hold each other.

The night is long, but it is not the end of the story.