The Mask Drops, The Light Enters

The sun has gone down, and the mask you wore all day is finally heavy enough to drop. That casual greeting you gave hours ago—the one that felt like glass in your throat—is safe now.

No one is watching you in this room. You do not have to hold the shape of a person who is fine.

There was a woman once who was caught in everything she had done wrong, standing in the center of a crowd that only saw her failure. The light bent down, wrote in the dust, and sent the accusers away until it was just her and him.

He looked up and asked if anyone remained to condemn her. When she said no, he said: neither do I.

Go. The performance is over.

The hollow ache underneath is not a secret you must keep; it is the very place the light enters to meet you. You are not required to be whole tonight to be held.