The Father Ran Before You Spoke

The afternoon sun is relentless, exposing every crack in the mask you wore all morning. You are exhausted from performing okayness while breaking inside, rehearsing the perfect explanation for why you mattered in the shower, knowing you will never say it.

The words feel heavy, useless, trapped behind your teeth. But the light does not need your speech to know your worth.

It saw you in the steam and the silence, before a single syllable was formed. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

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

The explanation you are crafting is for a courtroom that does not exist. You are already known.

You are already held. The light sees the unspoken truth and calls it enough.