Weight of Invisible Things

We carry stones we cannot see— the gravity of small refusals, each "no" a pebble in our pockets. The shoulders know the math before the mind admits the sum.

Light bends around us differently after we have said no to enough— we become dense with our own edges, our own necessary gravity. A single "yes" feels impossible then, heavy as the reverse of falling.

But then: a hand extended, and suddenly the stones are just stones again, round and smooth from being held, ready to become the bed of some river we were always meant to cross.