Found in the shaking hands

The noise of the party fades into a hum while you stand in the kitchen, gripping the counter so hard your knuckles turn white just to hide the shaking. You laugh at the joke because that is what is expected, but inside, you are terrified that someone will notice the tremor in your hands and know you are falling apart.

The light does not ask you to steady yourself before it sees you; it sees you right now, in the middle of the performance, and it knows exactly where you were before you ever walked into this room. What you are hiding in the dark is already plain to the one who loves you, and there is no mask thin enough to keep it out.

You do not have to hold on to the counter to stay standing; the thing you are trying to conceal is the very place where you will be found.