Let the Light See You Both

The morning light is unforgiving. It exposes the cracks in the mask you both wear—the one you wear to stay strong, and the one they wear so you won't fall apart.

You watch them swallow their grief, and you swallow yours, until the room is so full of silence it feels like it might burst. But the light does not need your performance.

It sees the tears you are hiding from each other. Go home and tell them what the light has done for you.

Tell them how you are still standing. The truth you speak in the kitchen, over coffee, with wet eyes and trembling hands—that is the only altar that matters today.

You do not have to hold the sky up for each other. You only have to let the light see you both, exactly as you are.