The Epilogue
There’s a moment at the end of the day when everything softens. The light, the noise, the performance. And in that moment that quiet, almost imperceptible shift, we begin to remove the veil.
Not just the physical one. The other veil. The one we wear in conversations, in rooms where we feel a little out of place, even in front of people we love. The veil that lets us nod instead of speak. Smile instead of unravel. Function instead of feel.
We don’t always know we’re wearing it until we’re alone, standing in front of the mirror or lying on the bed, undone, replaying things we didn’t say but wish we had. It’s a strange thing, how we go through the day hiding in plain sight. How we fold ourselves up to fit into what’s needed, expected, manageable.
But then comes The Epilogue.
The quiet space after the world stops asking things of you. The part where the emails are done, the shoes are off, and no one needs you to be anything but present. It’s here that the truest version of you comes forward. The one who overthinks everything, who replays entire conversations, who remembers the exact tone in someone’s voice or the way silence stretched too long. It’s not weakness. It’s awareness. It’s proof you felt something.
We don’t give that version of ourselves enough credit. The version that exists behind the veil. The one that isn’t edited or eloquent or always okay. The one who’s just… there. Real. Thinking. Breathing. Still becoming.
The epilogue isn’t about endings, not really. It’s about returns. It’s about who we are when no one’s watching and more importantly, who we allow ourselves to be when we finally stop watching ourselves.
And if that version of you needs to unravel a little, to take up space in silence, to feel deeply without making sense of it all. Let it.
Because behind the veil, under the layers, after the performance, you’re not lost. You’re just, home.
