You Do Not Have to Pretend

The laugh escapes your throat, bright and sharp, and for a second you believe it yourself. Then the sound dies, and the hollow ache rushes in to fill the space where the joy pretended to be.

You are performing for an audience that thinks you are fine, and the exhaustion of keeping up the mask is heavier than the silence you are trying to hide. But listen — the light that lives inside you does not need your performance to know you are there.

It saw the mask slip. It felt the ache before you named it.

What you bring forth from that hidden place will save you; what you keep buried will only deepen the dark. The kingdom is already spread out beneath your feet, even in this quiet, broken hour.

You do not have to pretend to be whole to be held.