Not because the glass is gone —
but because you finally see what it’s been trying to show you.
You kneel in the quiet,
and for the first time, you don’t rush to fix it.
You let the light find its way through the edges.
You let the shimmer sting your eyes.
You let it cut, just a little — enough to remind you you’re still alive.
Because you are.
Even after what broke.
Even after what didn’t love you back, or didn’t stay, or didn’t see.
You start to notice how grief glows when you stop running from it.
How loss can hum if you stop silencing it.
How the heart keeps sweeping anyway — not to erase the mess,
but to learn the rhythm of its own forgiveness.
There’s something sacred about glass.
It’s born in fire, shaped by pressure,
and when it breaks, it doesn’t disappear —
it multiplies the light.
So cry.
Cry until your eyes sting and your breath shakes.
Cry until the years of being “fine” melt out of your bones.
Cry because this time, you don’t have to be strong.
You just have to be true.
And when you’re ready, look down.
See how the pieces glisten —
every one of them still capable of reflection.
Every one of them still catching light.
That’s you.
Not unbroken.
Just reassembled by grace.