The Light Behind the Locked Door

The day ends, and the mask you wore for eight hours finally slips from your face. You lock the bathroom door not to hide from them, but to protect them from the sound of your breaking.

In that small room, with the fan humming to cover your grief, you feel utterly alone. But the light does not need an open door to reach you; it was there before you turned the lock.

It came from the light, and to the light you belong, even in the silence of a tiled floor. You do not have to explain your tears to the One who placed the spring of living water inside your chest.

The shame says you are broken; the truth says you are simply human, and the light is sitting with you in the dark.