The Face You Wear in the Morning

The door has closed, but your mind is still standing in the hallway, rehearsing the walk away. You can hear the whispers starting behind the wood, inventing the disappointment, writing the story of your failure before the ink is even dry.

The mask you wore when you turned the handle feels heavy now, stiff with the effort of pretending you were okay with leaving. But the light does not live in the rumors you imagine; it lives in the truth you carried out with you.

The noise behind the door cannot reach the place where you are hidden with God. You are not defined by the conversation you missed, but by the presence that walked out with you.

The mask is for the room; the face is for the morning.