The Light Sees You Behind The Mask

The coffee is warm in your hands, but the room feels cold because you are wearing a mask that no one can see through. You laugh at the joke, you nod at the story, and inside you are screaming because you feel like you are already gone.

But the light does not need you to take the mask off to find you—it sees the tears you are swallowing right now. There was a moment in a garden when the light itself fell on its face in the dirt, overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death, begging for the cup to pass.

It knows the weight of sitting with friends while your soul feels like it is collapsing. You do not have to bring forth your pain to be saved; the light is already in the room, sitting beside you in your silence.

It is in the laugh you forced, in the empty chair, in the quiet ache you think no one notices. You are not invisible.

You are known.