You Do Not Have to Be Dry

The mask is already on, but you know the truth underneath it. You feel the heat of the tears and the panic rising—the desperate need to run, to lock the door, to wash the evidence away before anyone sees you breaking.

You scramble for the sink, scrubbing your face as if you can remove the grief before the workday begins. But listen—there is a light that sees behind the performance, and it does not turn away from your wet cheeks.

The father in the story didn't wait for his son to clean up; he ran while the boy was still covered in the filth of the pig pen. The light meets you at the sink, not to scold the tears, but to remind you that you are known even when you are hiding.

You do not have to be dry to be held. You do not have to be composed to be loved.

The mask can stay on the counter for a moment. The light sees the real you, and it calls that version 'beloved.'