You Do Not Have to Fix Yourself

The engine is off, but the silence in the car is louder than the noise of the day ever was. You sit with your hands on the wheel, rehearsing a face that says 'I'm fine' so the people inside won't see you falling apart.

You are building a mask out of sheer exhaustion, hoping it holds long enough to get through the door. But the light does not need your performance to love you — it sees the tremor in your hands even through the dark.

There is a father who watched the road every single day, not waiting for a perfect son, but running toward the one who was still covered in dust. He did not wait for the speech.

He did not wait for the apology. He ran.

The light is already inside the house, not waiting for you to get it together, but waiting to hold the part of you that is breaking. You do not have to fix yourself in the driveway.

You only have to walk in.