The Light Sitting With You on the Floor

The key turns. The lock clicks.

And the moment the front door seals, the performance ends. You lean your weight against the wood, sliding down until you are sitting on the floor, breathing air that no one else has to smell.

This is the middle of the day — not the morning rush, not the evening release, but the long, quiet collapse where the mask falls off and you remember how heavy it was. You are exhausted from holding the shape of someone who has it together.

But the light does not need the mask. It was there in the grocery store line, in the office meeting, in the smile you forced.

It waited for you to come home and stop. The darkness you feel right now is not a sign that you are failing.

It is simply the silence after the noise. And in this silence, the light does not ask you to stand up again.

It sits with you on the floor. It knows the cost of the performance.

You do not have to earn your rest. The light is already here, in the quiet, in the dust, in the breath you are finally allowed to take.