The Father Runs Before You Speak

The afternoon asks its simplest question: 'How are you?' And your mouth opens, but the truth has been locked away so long you cannot find the key. You have become a professional at the middle of the day — smiling while the silence inside you screams.

You are so used to performing okayness that the real answer feels like a foreign language you have forgotten how to speak. But listen — the light does not need your polished response.

It is waiting for the honest stumble. 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 rehearsed and perfected.

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

You do not have to know how to answer to be loved. You only have to stop hiding the fact that you don't know.

The light is not afraid of your silence. It is waiting to run toward the sound of your real voice, however broken it may be.

The mask is heavy, but the face beneath it is already known.