No Need to Fix Your Face

The engine stops. The vibration dies.

And suddenly you are sitting in a silence so heavy it feels like it could crush the steering wheel. You wipe your face.

You check the mirror. You rehearse the smile you will wear when you walk through the door.

It is exhausting to carry two lives at once—the one that just shattered in the driver's seat, and the one you are about to perform for everyone inside. But listen closely.

The light does not need you to fix your face before you go in. It is not waiting for the mask to slip.

It is already inside the room you are dreading, sitting in the chair you will occupy, waiting for you to arrive exactly as you are. You do not have to pretend the tears didn't happen for the light to be present.

It sees the wet cheeks beneath the dry smile. It knows the weight you are carrying.

You are not alone in the car. And you will not be alone at the desk.

The performance is for them. The presence is for you.