The Light That Saw You Drowning

The sun has gone down, and the house is quiet, and the weight you carried all day feels heavier now that no one saw you carrying it. You woke up this morning drowning, and you went through every motion of being alive while the water rose, and not a single person noticed you were gone.

That silence is a specific kind of terror—the fear that your suffering is invisible, that you could vanish entirely and the world would keep spinning without a stutter. But listen.

The light does not need a witness to be real. You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord, and you return to it whether the crowd sees you or not.

There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world even when the room is dark and empty. You do not have to prove you are drowning to be held.

The light that lives in you saw you. It knew.

And it stayed.