# A Light That Burns For You

Some people exist to show you that there is a lamp in this world that doesn't need to shine for you, yet it always keeps its light on for you.

Karma doesn't ferry people across; people ferry themselves. We all come into each other's lives carrying our own scripts—you carry the walls you must crash into, I carry the boundaries I must keep. You cry or laugh in your own play, while I sit in my seat, watching quietly.

Not because I don't want to take the stage. But because I know your play is not one I can perform in.

All those moments you thought I was absent, I was actually there. In places you can't see, in positions you won't notice, in corners you forget the moment you turn away. For every song you listen to once, I listen to ten times. When you sigh, I hear it. When you're sad, I know before anyone else—but I won't tell you.

Because telling you would be a disturbance.

Some love means not asking questions, not drawing near, not pulling you away from your path. Your falls, I cannot catch; your tears, I cannot wipe; your sleepless nights, I cannot keep you company through. You think no one sees, but I've been awake all along.

Yet I say nothing.

I say nothing because I know: you must crash into your own wall to turn back; you must climb out of your own valley to have truly gone through it. Those things that cause you pain will eventually become the light in your eyes. Those obstacles you think you can't overcome will eventually become the gentle clouds at the corner of your mouth.

I cannot hurt for you, but I can stay awake through every moment you hurt.

There is a kind of relationship called karma that doesn't ferry.

I don't ferry you, not because I don't want to, but because I can't. My name isn't written in your script, and your tears cannot be part of my story. We're separated by a river—you cry on the other shore, and I watch from this side. I want to swim across and hold you, but I know that river, you must cross it yourself.

Only when you cross does the real you emerge.

So I keep this river, a silent ferryman. If you don't call, I won't move. If you do, I dare only respond softly. But I won't board your boat, I won't hold your rudder, I won't row that oar for you.

Because that oar is your practice, your path.

Sometimes you feel lonely, not knowing that on the other shore of the river, someone has always been there. They don't speak, don't draw close, and don't leave. They're just there.

That's enough.

Some people, their mere existence is meaning. No need to meet, no need to acknowledge each other, no need for any "I love you." You only need to know that somewhere in this world, there is a place, a lamp burning for you. It's not glaring, not intrusive, it won't make you feel burdened.

It's just there.

Whenever you're tired and look back, it will be there. From the day you first appeared in its sight until now, it has always been there.

Karma doesn't ferry, so do I ferry you? No, I don't ferry you.

I simply keep a lamp burning for you while you ferry yourself across.