The Light Sees You Without The Mask

The morning light is already pressing against the curtains, but you are holding your breath. You lie perfectly still next to the one you love, terrified that a single shift, a single sigh, will break the silence and bring the question you cannot answer without falling apart.

So you wear the mask of peace while your insides tremble. You think you are protecting them by staying quiet.

But the light does not need your performance to see what is happening. It sees the tension in your shoulders.

It hears the scream you are swallowing. There is a kind of honesty that happens before a single word is spoken.

The light is not waiting for you to explain yourself. It is already sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the space where your fear lives.

You do not have to speak to be known. The mask is heavy.

You can put it down.