The Light Meets You in the Stall

The door is locked. The tile is cold against your knees.

Out there, you were the one who held it together, the one who smiled while the world spun, but in here, the mask has fallen and the shaking has finally begun. You wait for the tremors to stop so you can splash water on your face and walk back into the noise, pretending you are whole.

But the light does not need you to fix your expression before it comes near. It is already here, in the stall, in the silence, in the tears you thought you had to hide.

The Father sees you not as the performance you gave, but as the child who is tired. You do not have to stop shaking to be held.

The trembling is not a sign you are losing the light; it is the sound of the armor breaking so the light can get in.