The Light Sees Your Tremor

The mirror in the bathroom does not lie, and this morning it showed you the tremor you tried to hide. You needed help to wipe your mouth because your hands shook too much to aim, and the shame of that small, wet failure feels heavier than the hangover itself.

You put on the mask before you left the house—the steady gaze, the calm voice, the performance of someone who has it all together. But the light sees behind the mask.

It saw the tremor. It saw the help you needed.

And it did not look away in disgust. There is a cup waiting for you, not of wine, but of water that becomes a spring inside you, so you never have to perform dryness again.

The light is not afraid of your shaking hands. It is gentle enough to hold them steady when you cannot.