The Light Sees Behind Your Mask

The coffee is warm in your hand, but your stomach is cold. You are replaying the exact second you knew they were lying.

You remember the tilt of their head, the pause that was too long, the way the words didn't match the eyes. And you remember your own face.

Smiling. Nodding.

Acting like everything was fine while the ground opened up beneath you. That smile feels like a mask now.

A heavy, suffocating thing you wore to keep the peace. But the light sees behind it.

It saw you then, and it sees you now. It knows the cost of that performance.

You do not have to keep wearing it here. The truth you swallowed to be polite is safe with the light.

It does not demand you smile. It only asks that you stop pretending you aren't hurting.

The mask was for them. The silence is for you.