The rooms of the house know what the heart cannot always name. They hold the weight of feeling, arranging themselves in quiet agreement with what aches, what lingers, what shelters.

Sadness expands, pressing against the walls, placing the ones we love on the far side of the house, out of reach. We speak, but the distance swallows our words.

Fear is small. It hides under the table, curled up in the dim light, waiting for the storm to pass. It listens to footsteps above, the hush of voices, the creak of uncertainty.

Loneliness takes the corners, the empty spaces where dust gathers, where things are left untouched. It stretches itself wide, filling the voids, making a home where there should be presence.

Suffering piles up, restless and heavy. It stays only long enough to discard us, leaving behind nothing but the marks of its visit—wrinkled sheets, faded echoes, a hollow breath.

And love—love folds itself into the narrow bed. It does not need space to be vast. It is enough. It is hands smoothing blankets, arms pulling close, the soft hush of a voice saying, “I’m here.”

Love does not ask for more. It only arrives. It only stays. It only holds. 💙

©️ Beatriz Esmer