The Light Sees Behind Your Mask

The mask is already on before you turn the key. You drive the same route you always do, but your hands tighten on the wheel when the grocery store comes into view.

That parking lot used to be where you bumped into them—where a simple errand became a collision with the past. Now, you hold your breath so you don't cry in the car, terrified that if you exhale, the performance will shatter.

You walk through the aisles looking okay, smiling at coworkers, acting as though your heart isn't breaking in the produce section. But the light sees behind the mask.

It knows you are weary of pretending to be whole while you are falling apart inside. You do not have to carry this weight alone today.

The truth is, the light was already there in that parking lot before you arrived, and it remains there now, holding the space you are trying to fill with silence. You are not defined by how well you hide the cracks.