The Light Enters Through The Gap

The afternoon sun hits the screen, and your hand won't stop shaking while you wait for the reply that will expose you. You polished the words until they gleamed, but inside you are crumbling, terrified that the next notification will tear the mask away.

The light does not need your performance to find you; it is already split open in the wood of your desk, waiting under the stone of your fear. You do not have to hold the facade together for one more hour; the yoke is easy, and the burden is light enough for you to finally put down.

There is a bruised reed in your chest that has not been broken, and a smoldering wick that has not been snuffed out. The gap between your words and your reality is not a place where the light cannot go; it is the very place where it enters.