The Light Runs Before You Speak

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels heavy with the things you never heard back. You are lying awake wondering if they ever actually forgave you, or if your apology just vanished into the air.

But listen — the light does not wait for a reply to be real. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

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

The embrace happened while the words were still stuck in the throat. The silence you are sitting in tonight is not proof that you are still lost.

It is simply the space where the running is happening. You do not need to hear a voice to know you are held.

The light has already crossed the distance. It is sitting beside you in the dark, not because you earned it, but because it refuses to leave.

The door is open even if no one has walked through it yet.