Light Sitting on the Floor With You

The bathroom stall is quiet, but your mind is loud, rehearsing a story about allergies or dust so no one asks why your face is wet. You are performing okayness in a room built for hiding, convincing yourself that the mask must stay perfect even when the eyes betray it.

But the light does not need your excuse to see you — it sees through the stall door, through the performance, through the lie you are crafting to survive the afternoon. It is not waiting for you to fix your face before it enters.

It is already there, sitting on the floor with you, unbothered by the tears. You do not have to explain the sorrow to be held in it.

The middle of the day is hard, but you are not alone in the stall.