The Light Remains When The Noise Stops

The room is quiet now, but the silence after you snapped feels heavier than the shouting ever was. You stand in the doorway, whispering an apology to the wood and the paint, as if the doorframe could absolve you of the heat that just left your hands.

The shadow gathers in the corners, holding the inventory of every sharp word you wish you could pull back into your throat. But listen — the light does not demand that you be gentle before it stays.

It stood in the garden when the world was breaking, and it did not leave because the night was loud. The same light that walked through betrayal is the very air you are breathing right now, even in this regret.

It was there before you lost your temper, and it is here now that you are sorry. You are not defined by the moment the peace broke.

You are the light that remains when the noise stops.