You Do Not Have to Wash the Day Off

The water is scalding, but you turn it hotter, scrubbing until your skin is raw. You are trying to wash off the performance—the mask you wore all day, the exhaustion you hid behind a smile.

You fear that if anyone smelled the fatigue on you, they would turn away. But the light does not need you to be clean before it comes close.

It saw the mask slip. It saw the effort it took to hold it up.

And it is not disgusted by the sweat or the strain. The light is not waiting for you to finish scrubbing.

It is already in the steam, in the sound of the water, in the very ache of your tired hands. You do not have to wash the day off to be held.

The performance is over. You can stop now.