The Light Waits Behind Your Mask

The phone rings, and before you can even say hello, your body locks up. It is a specific kind of terror—the one that lives in the gap between the sound and your voice.

You put on the mask. You smile at your desk while your hands are shaking under the table.

You perform okayness because the world expects it, but inside, you are holding your breath. The light sees behind the mask.

It knows the tremor in your chest before you speak. It does not ask you to be brave.

It does not demand a perfect greeting. It simply waits in the silence with you.

You do not have to force the words out. The light is already there, in the tightness of your throat, in the fear of the connection.

It is not waiting for your performance. It is waiting for you to stop pretending you are fine.

The mask is heavy. You are allowed to set it down, even for a moment, and just breathe.