The Light Beneath the Phantom Weight

The morning light hits the window and the room feels too bright, too exposed. You are dressed for the day, but your skin still burns where their hand rested hours ago—a ghost pressure that refuses to fade.

You walk through your tasks wearing a mask of normalcy, smiling at colleagues while your body remembers a touch that is no longer there. The world sees a person functioning; you feel like a house with the lights on but nobody home.

But listen—the light that lives inside you is not waiting for the phantom weight to lift before it can shine. It is already there, beneath the memory, beneath the ache.

What you are looking for is not a future moment when you finally forget. It is already here, spread out on the floor of this very room, waiting for you to stop scanning the horizon and look down.

The mask is heavy, but the light is lighter.