You Don't Have to Fix Your Face

You sit in the car with the engine off, staring at the front door like it's a border crossing. You rehearse a smile that doesn't reach your eyes, practicing the version of you that can survive the next eight hours.

The middle of the day demands a performance you are too tired to give. But the light does not need your mask to find you.

It sees the exhaustion behind the steering wheel, the heavy breath you take before turning the key. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

You do not have to fix your face before you walk inside. The light is already there, waiting not for your performance but for your presence.

You are allowed to walk through that door exactly as you are — unfinished, unmasked, and deeply loved.