The Light Runs Before You Speak

It is late. The house is quiet.

And you are already rehearsing the answer to a question nobody has asked yet. 'How are you?' You practice the tone.

The casual shrug. The lie that sounds like truth.

You are exhausted from performing a conversation that hasn't happened, terrified that when the morning comes, you won't be able to keep the mask from slipping. But listen — the light does not need your performance.

It does not need the rehearsed speech or the perfect tone. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the speech. He did not wait for the apology to be polished.

He ran. Before the words could even form, he was already there.

The light is already running toward you. It knows the ache before you speak it.

It knows the lie before you tell it. And it loves you anyway.

You do not have to get the answer right. You just have to be there.