Still Standing

Still Standing

The night air hung heavy, thick with the kind of silence that wasn’t really silent. Wind stirred the trees, gravel settled under our boots, but neither of us spoke. We just stood there, arms clasped, leaning in—forehead to forehead, the weight of it all pressing between us. Not crushing—just there.

I exhaled slow, steady. “You don’t have to carry it all, brother.” My voice was low, firm. A reminder, not a command.

You gripped my arm tighter, not in defiance—just needing to feel something solid. “I know,” you said, but the words came like a man trying to convince himself.

I let that sit. Truth doesn’t always land the first time. It takes a second pass, a steady presence.

The weight of your shoulders, the tension in your jaw—I saw it all. The kind of weight a man carries when he thinks he’s failing at something God never asked him to hold alone.

I didn’t fix it. Didn’t push. Just stood there with you, bearing the silence together.

After a while, your grip loosened. Not in surrender, but in relief. Like the weight wasn’t gone, but it didn’t have to suffocate you either.

The wind stirred again. I could feel you breathing deeper now, steadier. The battle wasn’t over, but you weren’t fighting alone.

And that was enough.

For now, that was enough.