The Light Sitting on the Floor With You

The lock clicks. A small, sharp sound in the silence of the house.

You sit on the closed lid, knees pulled up, finally allowed to let the mask fall. No one to arrange your face for.

No one to perform okayness for. Just you, the tile, and the heavy air of a night that feels like it will never end.

This is the bottom. The place where the weight is too much to hold upright.

But listen — the light does not need you to stand up right now. It does not need you to smile.

It is here in the dark with you, sitting on the cold floor, waiting for your breath to find its own rhythm again. You do not have to fix this tonight.

You do not have to be anything other than exactly what you are in this small, locked room. The dawn is coming, whether you can see it or not.

And until it arrives, the light is enough to hold you right here.