The Light Sees Behind Your Performance

The water is still running, but the moment has passed. You are rehearsing a speech for a face that has already gone blank, trying to find the one perfect arrangement of words that would have kept them from turning away.

But the mask you wear to get through the morning is heavy, and it hides the very thing that could have saved the conversation: your trembling. There was a woman who touched the edge of a coat in a crushing crowd, desperate and unnoticed.

She did not have a speech prepared. She only had a reach.

And the light stopped everything to turn to her. You do not need the perfect apology to be held.

The light sees behind the performance you are stitching together right now. It knows the words you cannot find.

It loves the person hiding beneath the okayness.