The Light Knows Your Hidden Face

The morning light hits the window and you are already replaying the exact moment the questions stopped. You realize your silence was a lesson you taught them well — how to stop knocking.

You wear the okay-ness like a costume, smooth and unbothered, while the hollow space inside grows louder. But the light sees what is done in secret.

It sees the room where you closed the door and the tears you thought were invisible. It does not wait for a performance.

It goes to the well of your hiding and offers water that ends the thirst. You do not have to keep the mask on for the light to recognize you.

It already knows the face beneath the armor. The silence you taught them cannot unteach the light how to call your name.