The Light Stands in the Chill With You

The water has turned cold, but you are still standing there. Not because you want to freeze, but because the towel is three feet away and feels like three miles.

The simple act of reaching out, of drying off, of moving into the next part of your life, feels like a mountain you cannot climb right now. You are not lazy.

You are not broken. You are just empty.

And the light knows this. It does not demand that you summon strength you do not have.

It does not shout instructions from the other side of the bathroom door. It steps into the steam with you.

It stands in the chill until your skin prickles. It waits.

Not to push you, but to remind you that you do not have to do this alone. The strength to reach for the towel is not yours to generate.

It is given. One small movement at a time.