The drawer is just a drawer

A jacket pocket nobody checked. The back of a drawer. A quick errand that ran twenty minutes long. A number you rounded down when someone asked how much you smoke. Maybe it was a lot. Maybe it was just a little editing. Either way, you were running a small cover operation inside your own life.

Nobody hired you for that job. The cigarette put you on cover duty and paid you nothing. And the real cost was never the effort. It was the distance. You can sit right next to someone with one drawer shut, and both of you feel it. Now there's nothing to time, nothing to round down, nothing to keep straight.

Being fully known feels better than the secret was ever worth. And with God, you already were. He never once got the edited number. He saw all of it and stayed. The hiding didn't protect you from Him. It only kept you at arm's length from everyone else.

Say one true sentence today to one person who was around during the editing. Nothing that needs a serious face. Something like it was harder than I let on. Then notice what your shoulders do. The drawer's just a drawer now. Nothing left to hold shut.