To the one who left the light on:
You never said you waited up. You didn't have to. I'd come home late and the light would be on, the house quiet like it gets when the book's still open on the chair and you've stopped pretending to read.
I never said thank you. It would have meant admitting I'd been somewhere I shouldn't have been, or nowhere, just driving. Both, on different nights.
Here's what I never said: I came back because the light was on. Not that I was done out there. While it was on, home stayed a place I could walk into.
You never asked where I'd been. I thought you didn't want to know. You left me the room and I never used it. That's on me, not the light.
Anyway. I keep a lamp on in my hallway now. I get it.