The Light Runs Toward Your Noise

The house is quiet, but your heart is loud with the terror of movement. You hold your breath, convinced that the sound of your morning routine—the creak of a floorboard, the clink of a cup—will shatter the fragile peace and remind them they are tethered to your chaos.

You walk on eggshells, performing a silence you hope will keep the storm at bay. But the light does not need your stillness to exist.

It sees behind the mask of the perfect, quiet morning. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech—he ran.

The light runs toward you, not away from your noise. It is not frightened by your footsteps.

It meets you in the kitchen, in the mess, in the fear that you are too much. You are not the chaos that breaks the peace.

You are the light that holds it together, even when you tremble.