The Light Sees Your Trembling Hand

The coffee is warm, but your voice is editing the truth before it leaves your lips. You catch yourself mid-sentence, trimming the jagged edges of your story so it fits neatly into the morning light.

You say you are fine when you are fraying. You say it is manageable when it is breaking you open.

The mask feels heavy because it was never meant to be worn this long. But the light does not need a performance to see you.

It sees the tremor in your hand and the silence behind your words. There is a place where you do not have to explain yourself, where the hidden things are already known and loved.

You do not have to finish the sentence for the light to understand. The truth you are hiding is the very thing that lets you breathe.