The Light Meets You in the Empty

The house is quiet, and for a fleeting second, you wish the morning would wait. You wish the small chest would keep rising and falling in the dark so you don't have to stand up and face the hollow space inside your own ribs.

The emptiness feels too large to carry before the coffee is even brewed. But listen — the light does not ask you to fill that space before you begin.

It only asks you to rise. There is a father who watched the road every day, not because he knew the son was coming, but because love made him look.

He saw the boy while he was still a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech, before any proof of change — he ran. The light is already running toward this day.

It is not waiting for you to be full before it meets you. It meets you in the empty.

The dawn is not a demand to perform. It is an invitation to be found.