The Light Holds You in the Lie

The kitchen light is too bright right now. They ask how you slept, and your mouth moves before your heart can catch up, forcing a smile that feels like a crack in the plaster.

You are calculating the cost of another day, another night, another performance of being okay. But the light does not need your mask to find you.

It sees the exhaustion behind the eyes you are trying to hide. There is a peace that does not require you to stop trembling, a rest that exists even while the house is moving and the questions keep coming.

You do not have to hold the smile. You do not have to hold the weight.

The light is already holding you, right here in the kitchen, right now in the lie. The performance is over; the presence remains.