Light Sees Through the Steam

The shower is roaring, a white noise curtain drawn against the morning. You are pouring the hidden stash down the drain, watching the evidence swirl away while the steam hides what you are doing.

This is the mask you wear before the world wakes up — the performance of being okay while you destroy the thing that keeps you numb. You think the running water hides the smell, but the light sees through the steam.

It does not need you to stop the water or pretend the bottle was never there. It sees the trembling hand and the exhaustion behind the eyes.

The truth is not that you are failing; the truth is that you are tired of hiding. The light is not waiting for you to be clean before it enters the bathroom.

It is already there, in the noise and the shame, whispering that you do not have to carry this secret alone. The mask is heavy, but you were never meant to wear it in the dark.