The Light Sitting on the Floor With You

The water has gone cold, and the silence in the bathroom feels heavy enough to crush you. You sit on the edge, staring at the red marks on your skin, wondering if your absence would even register in the world outside this door.

The gathering dark loves to convince you that you are invisible, that your pain is a secret too small to matter. But there is a light that does not need you to speak to see you.

It saw the woman who touched the edge of a cloak in a crushing crowd, feeling entirely unseen. It stopped everything to ask: who touched me?

It knows the texture of your sorrow better than you know the marks on your own arms. You are not hidden in this darkness; you are held.

The light is sitting on the floor with you, waiting for you to realize you are already found.