the terrifying silence in the car driveway after turning off the engine, knowing you have to summon the energy to walk inside and pretend you aren't hollow

The engine cuts out. The vibration stops.

And suddenly the silence is so loud it feels like it might crush the glass. You are sitting in the dark, knowing that in a moment you will have to open the door, stand up, and walk inside to perform the version of yourself that everyone expects to see.

The hollow one. The tired one.

The one who smiles when they want to scream. But you do not have to carry the mask into the house yet.

Not for this one minute. There is a light inside you that does not need your performance to survive.

It was there before you left this morning, and it is still there now, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the silence. It does not ask you to be strong.

It only asks you to be present. Sit in the dark with it.

Let it hold the weight while your hands rest. You do not have to generate the light tonight.

You only have to remember that it is already shining, even here, even now, even in the driveway.