You Do Not Have to Shrink

The morning light hits the glass, and for a second, you see your own face superimposed over the room behind you. You catch yourself speaking in that small, careful voice—the one you learned to use so you wouldn't set anything off.

It sounds like someone else. It sounds like you are trying to disappear while you are still standing right there.

You put on the mask because the world feels too loud, too sharp, too ready to break you if you show the cracks. But the light does not need your performance to find you.

It sees the person behind the glass, not the reflection you are trying to polish. There is a voice that calls you by name, and it is not the small one you use to survive.

It is the deep, steady tone that says you are known entirely. You do not have to shrink to fit the room.

The light takes up the whole space, and so do you.