The Light Sees You in the Dark

You are lying perfectly still, holding your breath so the darkness won't know you are weeping. The silence of the house feels heavy, like a weight pressing down on your chest, forcing the tears to stay inside where no one can see them.

But the light does not need you to be quiet to find you. It does not wait for you to stop shaking before it comes near.

There is a presence that sees through the performance of sleep, a tenderness that knows the exact shape of your grief even when you are pretending to be stone. The Father sees you in the dark—not as a problem to be solved, but as a child to be held.

You do not have to explain the crying. You do not have to wipe your face before you are loved.

The light is already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for you to stop hiding and simply let it witness you. The mask you wear for the world has no power here.

You are safe to fall apart.