I still stand here

 I don’t care

who walks through your doors

or what boundaries you’ve etched

to keep me on the other side.

I see them.

I will honor them.

But don’t mistake my stillness

for waiting.

I am moving—

inward, upward,

forward in the quiet.

I just refuse to run

after what’s always retreating.

It’s sad,

you know,

to see the lie sitting.

I thought we had grown past that part

of our lives—

where truth was something

to dress in caution

and explanation.

But if you had to lie

to guard something raw inside you,

then I understand.

Not because you explained it—

but because Jehovah taught me

how to see

without being told.

He keeps whispering:

Be patient.

And I, in all my stubborn edges,

have obeyed.

Even when every action of yours

unfolds like a script

from a life

I promised never to reenact.

Even when it feels like

being unseen.

Even when I told myself

“never again”

to this kind of

one-sided loyalty.

Still—

He softens my thoughts

before they harden.

He reorients my heart

toward kindness,

toward care

in your presence.

You call it an addiction.

I don’t know what to call it.

Only that it’s a truth

I am not permitted

to fully grasp.

So do what you must.

Host who you must.

Comply with whatever

temporary peace

you’re building.

I will not interfere.

I will not beg.

But I will also not disappear.

Because I am not standing here

for you alone.

I am standing here

because Jehovah asked me to.

And if my presence

means something

to someone—

even if that someone is not

yet you—

then that is enough,

for now.

Though none of this makes sense to me,

I will still be

what He is asking me to be:

A friend

with open hands,

closed mouth,

and a heart anchored

in more than

this world’s understanding.