Put the script down now

The day is ending, and the silence in the room feels heavier than it did this morning. You are still rehearsing the conversation you needed to have, the words you would say if they had just called back.

But the phone stayed dark. The door stayed shut.

And now you are holding a dialogue with a ghost. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the speech. He ran.

Before the apology, before the explanation — he ran. You do not need to earn the right to be held.

The light does not require your perfect words to know your heart. It sees the rehearsal and it sees the exhaustion behind it.

It is not waiting for you to get it right. It is already here, sitting in the quiet with you.

You can put the script down now.