The Light Does Not Run From Heavy Things

The sun is dipping below the horizon, and the house is finally quiet. In this stillness, your thumb hovered over the screen.

You typed the truth. You typed the need.

And then you erased it. You decided your hunger was too heavy to place on someone else's table.

You chose silence because you thought you were protecting them from your weight. But listen — the light does not run from heavy things.

There was a man once, paralyzed for thirty-eight years, lying beside a pool while everyone else rushed past. He had no one to help him into the water.

He had given up on asking. But the light stopped.

It did not scold him for being too much trouble. It asked him one question: 'Do you want to get well?' The light is not afraid of your paralysis.

It is not intimidated by your thirty-eight years. It stands right beside your bed.

You do not have to impose your need. You only have to stop hiding it.

The evening is not for carrying the weight alone. It is for setting it down.