The Light Runs Before You Speak

The day is ending, and now the quiet brings the words you practiced all afternoon. You are rehearsing an apology for believing a lie that felt like salvation.

You trusted something false because you were thirsty, and the lie promised water. Tonight, the shame tries to convince you that your hope was a mistake.

But the light does not condemn you for needing to believe. It sees the hunger that made you reach.

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 gathering dark cannot hide the truth that you are still here.

The light is not waiting for your perfect explanation. It is already running toward you.