The magician’s cloak

The Magician’s Cloak

You wear it often.

In fact—always.

And they expect you to.

Always sitting in their seats,

Waiting for the performance of a lifetime.

Expecting to rise,

Applaud,

Offer you a standing ovation.

You’re never allowed to forget your lines.

Never allowed to miss a cue.

You are the Phantom of the Opera.

You believe their friendship depends on it.

Their respect, your job—your survival—

All tied to your ability

To perform.

Love?

It was never unconditional.

It was earned.

Not by being you,

But by what you could do.

They even gave you a title—

A badge of honour

For relentless consistency:

A decorated general.

But it wore you down,

That magician’s cloak.

Heavy on your soul.

Invisible to them.

Natural, they thought.

Expected.

Your perfection?

Deserved.

Your exhaustion?

Unseen.

The few who noticed?

Dismissed as jealous.

And maybe they were—

But they weren’t wrong.

You knew it.

And deep down,

You longed to be exposed.

You prayed for someone

To call you out—

To name the fraud you felt you were.

Prison would’ve been kinder

Than this constant stage.

Truth would’ve been liberating.

But instead,

You kept the mask.

And kept performing.

Then—

He came along.

Unfazed by your polish.

Naïve to the legend.

He made you take the cloak off.

He hated the act.

He loathed the mask.

He hid the cloak from you,

Every chance he got.

He loved you—

Not what you did.

Not what you said.

But you.

No ovation needed.

He clapped for your silence.

Applauded your stillness.

For the first time,

Someone saw your real face—

Not the magic,

Not the tricks,

Just the hands beneath them.

He gave you a standing ovation

For doing nothing.

And you—

You felt weightless.

Unreal.

Still, you carry the cloak.

Still, you bring the mask

To dinners.

To work.

To all of them.

And him?

You keep him hidden.

The one person who sees you.

The one who claps without a show.

Your little secret sanctuary.