The Light Eats With You Anyway

The sun is dipping below the horizon now, and with it comes that heavy exhale you've been holding all day. There is a specific moment replaying in your mind—a second where the truth rose up your throat, ready to be spoken, but you swallowed it back down.

You let the lie harden there instead, a stone settling in your chest while the world moved on. It feels like a failure, this silence.

But listen to the promise that the light does not demand your perfection before it comes near. It stands at the door and knocks, not to accuse you of the words you didn't say, but to ask if it can come in and eat with you anyway.

The truth that lives inside you is stronger than the lie you swallowed. It has not been extinguished by your fear.

You do not have to force the door open with a perfect confession. The light is already pressing against the wood, waiting for you to simply stop holding your breath.

The day is done, and the lie does not have to be the final thing you carry into the night.