The Light That Sits in Your Rubble

The key turns in the lock, and the sound feels like a verdict on the day you just spent curating calm. You held the smile together.

You nodded at the right times. You wore the mask so well that even you almost believed it was your face.

But now the door opens, and the question comes: 'How are you?' And you feel the facade shatter before you even speak. The gathering dark does not ask for your performance; it only asks for your presence.

There is a light that does not need you to be okay before it enters the room. It walks in, sees the cracks in your composure, and sits down beside you in the rubble.

You do not have to rebuild the wall tonight. The light is already there, waiting in the silence after the question, holding the pieces you are too tired to gather.