The Light Sitting With You in the Dark

The afternoon stretches out, a long corridor of fluorescent hum and expected performance. You are here, in the stall, hand locked on the latch, trying to swallow a sob before the mask slips.

The world outside the door wants your smile, your efficiency, your 'I'm fine.' But the light does not need the paint to be fresh to see you. It saw you before the makeup, and it sees you now, in the tremble.

There is a rest that does not require you to leave this room or fix your face. The kingdom is not a destination you reach after you compose yourself; it is the air you are breathing right now, even while you cry.

You do not have to earn the right to fall apart. The light is not waiting for you to open the door; it is already here, sitting on the floor with you in the dark.

The mask can wait. The love cannot.