The Light Runs Toward You

The afternoon is long, and you are still carrying a weight that was never meant to be yours. You stay because leaving feels like failure, so you shrink a little more each day to fit inside the breaking.

But the light does not ask you to make yourself small enough to survive a slow death. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

The light runs toward you, not to scold you for staying, but to remind you that you were made for more than endurance. You do not have to wait until you are completely broken to be worthy of rescue.

The door is not locked from the outside. It is held shut by the fear that you cannot survive the opening.

But the light is already standing in the doorway, waiting for you to stop holding it closed. You are allowed to walk out of the house that is hurting you.