Love Meets You Before You Fix Yourself

The afternoon stretches long, a quiet corridor where the only sound is your own breathing and the distant hum of a world that expects you to be fine. Then you hear it—the footsteps on the porch.

The familiar rhythm of someone you love, coming home. And suddenly, the panic rises: the frantic scrubbing of the face, the desperate reconstruction of the smile before the handle turns.

You are building a wall out of muscle and pretense, hoping they won't see the cracks behind your eyes. But the light does not need your performance.

It does not require the mask to be flawless before it enters. There is a verse that whispers through the noise of your fear: the darkness has not overcome it.

The light is already in the room, waiting not for your act, but for your presence. You do not have to finish fixing yourself before they walk in.

The love that meets you at the door is strong enough to hold the version of you that is still breaking.