You Do Not Have to Be Whole

The sun is high, and the world expects you to be moving. But you are carrying the weight of yesterday's collapse, and the mask feels heavier than your face.

You walked out in front of them, and now you have to walk back in as if nothing broke. The gap between how you look and how you feel is a canyon you have to cross every hour.

But notice—the light does not ask you to fix the crack before you show up. It does not demand you glue the pieces back together to be worthy of the afternoon.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the speech.

He ran. Before the apology, before the pretense of being okay—he ran.

The light sees the performance and loves the person behind it. It knows you are tired of holding the pose.

You do not have to be whole to be held. You just have to be here.

The mask is for them. The breath is for you.