You Are the Light That Holds It

The mask is on. The coffee is hot.

The world sees a person who has it together. But inside, you are lying perfectly still in the dark, replaying a single awkward sentence from three years ago.

You are back in that room. The heat rises in your cheeks.

The silence stretches. The shadow insists that the moment defines you — that the stumble is the whole story.

But the light sees what the shadow hides. There is a name written on a white stone, known only to you and to God.

The awkwardness is real. The shame feels heavy.

Yet the light is heavier. It does not erase the memory.

It surrounds it. You are not the sentence you cannot forget.

You are the light that holds it.