The Light Brewing in the Silence

The coffee pot gurgles, a small, domestic sound that tries to cover the silence you carried in from the bedroom. You are pouring the cup for the person you owe words to, and your hands are steady, but your chest is a knot of unspoken things.

The mask fits so well this afternoon that even you almost believe you are fine. But the light does not live in the performance you are giving; it lives in the tremor you are hiding.

It was there in the silence last night, and it is here now, in the steam rising from the mug. You do not have to fix the relationship with a perfect speech to be held.

The light is already in the kitchen, waiting in the space between your fear and their face. It is not asking for a grand confession; it is just asking you to stop pretending the darkness isn't real.

One day, the mask will fall, and you will realize the light was brewing the coffee all along.