The Light Needs No Script

It is three in the morning and you are standing in front of the mirror, rehearsing words that feel like stones in your mouth. You hate how stiff they sound, how much like a performance this apology has become.

You are trying to craft a perfect sentence to fix a broken thing, and the silence of this hour is telling you that you cannot speak your way into wholeness. The light does not need your script.

It saw the father run before the son finished his speech, before the rehearsed lines could even land. Your trembling voice, the one that cracks and fails and sounds nothing like a sermon, is the only truth the light requires.

Go back to sleep. The apology is not in the words you practiced, but in the heart that is too tired to pretend anymore.