The Light Eats Bread With You

The day is ending, and the mask you wore so carefully is starting to feel heavy. You are afraid that if you stop performing perfection, the people who love you will finally see the fraud underneath and leave.

But the light does not wait for you to be flawless before it stays. It stands at the door and knocks, asking only to come in and eat with you — not to inspect your work, but to share your bread.

There is a name written on a white stone that no one else knows, a secret identity the light gave you long before you ever tried to earn anyone's approval. You do not have to hold the performance together for one more hour.

The darkness is gathering, but the light is already inside the room, waiting for you to simply be.