The Light Stays When They Leave

The room is warm, the laughter is real, and yet you feel the cold draft of a door opening in their mind. You are joking, but they are already rehearsing the silence of an empty hallway.

You are holding their hand while they are mentally packing a bag you cannot see. The gathering dark brings this specific terror: the suspicion that you are loving a ghost who has already left the building.

But listen — the light does not depend on their staying. It does not vanish when their attention wanders.

It stands at the door of your own heart, not theirs, and it knocks. It waits for you to stop chasing the one who is leaving and open up to the One who is already here, sitting in the chair beside you, refusing to pack.