The Light Runs Before You Speak

The afternoon is long, and the silence in your chest is louder than the work around you. You are rehearsing words you know you will never speak, building a bridge to someone you are too afraid to cross.

The weight of the unsaid apology grows heavier with every passing hour, turning the middle of the day into a prison of your own making. But the light does not wait for your courage to arrive before it enters the room.

It sits with you in the stall, in the hesitation, in the gap between the thought and the voice. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — he did not wait for the speech to be perfect, he ran before the first word was spoken.

The light is already running toward the place where you are stuck. You do not have to finish the sentence to be held.

The silence is not a barrier to the love that knows your name.