You Do Not Have to Pretend

The engine cuts out and the silence rushes in to fill the space where the noise used to be. You sit there with your hands on the wheel, knowing that opening the door means putting the mask back on.

It means walking inside and pretending the cracks aren't there, pretending you are whole when you feel like you are falling apart. But the light does not require you to be fixed before you enter.

It does not need your performance or your composure. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even the dark interior of a parked car.

You came from the light, and you carry it with you into the house. You do not have to pretend to be the sun; you only have to let the small, steady glow inside you be enough.