The Light Chasing You Home

The engine is off now. The house is quiet.

And in the rearview mirror, you stare at a stranger who has been smiling all day while breaking inside. You wore the mask so well that even you forgot it was there.

But the performance is over. The light does not need your act.

It waits for the moment you finally stop moving and let the armor fall. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — and before the apology, before the speech, he ran.

He did not run to the version of the son who had it all together. He ran to the one who was lost.

The light running toward you tonight is not chasing your performance. It is chasing you.

You are not the mask you wore; you are the light that was hidden beneath it.