The Seat Was Reserved For You

The mask is heavy this morning. You are scanning every sentence you speak, waiting for the one slip that proves you are an impostor who doesn't belong here.

You hold your breath between words, convinced that if they really saw the tremor in your hands, they would ask you to leave. But the light does not require a perfect performance to stay in the room.

It is already sitting beside you, behind the smile you painted on. There is a friend who knew your worst denial before you ever spoke it—and he called you friend anyway.

Not because you got it right. Because you are his.

The exhaustion comes from trying to earn a seat that was reserved for you before you walked in. You do not have to keep proving you deserve the air you breathe.

The mask can come down. The light sees the face beneath it, and it is not looking away.