The Mask Is Heavy But You Are Known

The water drowns out the tremor in your voice as you practice the lie one more time. 'I'm fine,' you say to the tile, rehearsing the smile that will fit perfectly over the cracks.

You are building a mask so smooth, so convincing, that no one will ever know you are drowning behind it. But the light does not need your performance to find you.

It sees the actor and the ache in the same glance. There is a truth that lives inside you, untouched by the script you memorized this morning.

It was there before you learned to hide, and it remains while you pretend. You do not have to finish the rehearsal.

You do not have to get the voice right. The mask is heavy, but the face beneath it is already known, already held, already enough.