The Light Sees You Behind The Mask

The house is loud with a joy that isn't yours. You held the tiny socks. You smiled at the games. You were the perfect guest while your own heart was breaking on the floor inside your chest. That kind of performance is heavy. It makes the air feel thick enough to drown in.

But listen — the light does not scold you for the mask. It sees the tremor in your hands beneath the paper plate. It knows you are tired of holding the pieces together so no one else has to feel your weight.

There was a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years. She spent everything she had trying to be well, pushing through crowds just to touch the edge of a cloak. She was exhausted, empty, and utterly unseen until the light stopped the whole procession to ask: Who touched me?

He did not want the crowd. He wanted her.

You do not have to hold it together down here. The strength you are borrowing to survive this party is not the strength that keeps you alive. The real strength is the one that lets you put the mask down. The one that says: I am falling apart, and I am still held.

The light is not waiting for you to be whole before it comes close. It is already sitting on the edge of the bathtub with you, in the dark, gathering the pieces you dropped.