The Light Runs Toward Your Silence

The cursor blinks in the dark, a tiny pulse against the black. You typed it all out—the ache, the truth, the whole heavy story of why you hurt.

Then you stopped. And now you are deleting it.

Word by word. Backspace until the screen is blank again, as if the pain never happened.

But listen. The father in the story did not wait for the speech.

He saw his son while he was still a long way off, still rehearsing his apology, and he ran. He ran before the words could be spoken.

The light does not need your perfect explanation to find you. It saw you typing.

It sees you deleting. It is already running toward the silence you just made.

The unsaid things are not lost to God. They are held in the quiet where words fail.

You do not have to finish the sentence to be known.