A Light That Shouldn't Be There

You sit in the dim part of the room,

the one that remembers every version of you

without asking for explanations.

The air feels heavier tonight,

as if the walls have been listening

and finally decided to exhale.

You breathe slowly,

letting the quiet settle on your shoulders

like a shawl you didn't choose

but learned to wear anyway.

There is a softness to the stillness,

a kind of mercy in not being asked

to be anything other than present.

A memory stirs-

not loud, not sharp,

just a small shift in the dark,

like something waking up

before it remembers its own name.

The refrigerator light flickers when I open the door.

A line that doesn't belong,

bright and domestic and absurd,

cutting through the room

like a misplaced truth

you never meant to say out loud.

You don't chase it away.

You don't try to fold it

into the shape of the moment.

You let it hover there,

uninvited and uncorrected,

a reminder that not everything

arrives in the right order.

The quiet shifts around it,

confused but willing to make space,

the way the heart sometimes does

for things it doesn't understand

but can't quite refuse.

You stay still,

holding the weight you came with

and the strange brightness

that shouldn't be here

but is.

And somehow,

the night continues anyway-

imperfect, uneven,

but still yours to survive.