Where the Light Is Held Close
She lowers her gaze as if listening to something only she can hear.
Sheer light slips through the curtain beside her, diffused and gentle, asking nothing of her body except permission to exist nearby. Her hands gather fabric and breath together, not to hide, but to center. This moment belongs to her alone—quiet, intentional, unobserved even while being seen.
This is not retreat.
It is self-possession.
Radiance narrows here, becoming intimate rather than expansive. What glows is the act of choosing oneself—the calm ritual of holding warmth close, of deciding how much of the world is allowed in.
Some suns do not fill the room.
They stay exactly where she cups them.
Where the Light Is Held Close
She lowers her gaze as if listening to something only she can hear.
Sheer light slips through the curtain beside her, diffused and gentle, asking nothing of her body except permission to exist nearby. Her hands gather fabric and breath together, not to hide, but to center. This moment belongs to her alone—quiet, intentional, unobserved even while being seen.
This is not retreat.
It is self-possession.
Radiance narrows here, becoming intimate rather than expansive. What glows is the act of choosing oneself—the calm ritual of holding warmth close, of deciding how much of the world is allowed in.
Some suns do not fill the room.
They stay exactly where she cups them.