He Ran Before You Could Speak

The door is locked. The faucet is running to mask the sound of a body finally giving up the act of being fine.

You held the mask up all day, smiling when asked, nodding when expected, while the weight inside grew heavier with every hour. But now, in the steam and the noise, the performance has ended.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the speech.

He did not wait for the cleanup. He ran.

Before the apology, before the explanation — he ran. The light does not need you to turn off the water or dry your face before it enters.

It sits on the closed lid of the toilet. It hears you through the roar of the pipes.

You are not hiding from the light; you are hiding from the exhaustion of pretending you don't need it. The mask was for them.

The tears are for you. And the light is for both.