The Light Followed You In

The middle of the day is long, and the mask you wore this morning feels heavy now, like wet clay hardening on your skin. You stepped away from the noise, into the quiet of the stall, and now the shaking has started—the terrifying silence after the performance where you finally have to feel what you've been holding back.

It feels like you are trapped in a small, dark box with no way out, waiting for your hands to stop trembling so you can walk back into the light. But listen closely: the light did not stay outside with the crowd.

It followed you in here. It is sitting on the cold floor with you, in the quiet, in the shame, in the exhaustion.

You do not have to fix the shaking before you leave. You do not have to compose your face or straighten your clothes to be worthy of the next hour.

The One who knows the number of hairs on your head knows the number of tears you are swallowing right now, and he is not waiting for you to stop crying to call you beloved. The performance is for them.

This broken, quiet moment is for you. And it is enough.