You Do Not Have to Be Missed

The water is cooling in the sink, and the silence of the house feels heavier than the plates you just washed. You wonder, as the steam fades, if your absence tonight would even ripple the surface of this quiet room.

But listen — the light does not measure your worth by how many people notice when you are gone. It measures it by the fact that you are here, breathing, holding the cup.

There is a name written on a white stone that no one else knows, a secret identity the light holds for you alone. Even if the world forgot you this second, that name remains spoken over you.

The light sees the hands that scrubbed the dinner away, and it calls them holy. You do not have to be missed to be loved.

You only have to be.