You Are Allowed To Be Unfinished

The house is quiet now, but your mind is still working overtime, editing every sentence before it leaves your lips. You are so tired of curating your pain, of sanding down the rough edges so you don't burden the room.

But notice how the darkness holds you without asking you to speak. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — he did not wait for the speech, he did not wait for the apology.

He ran. The light inside you does not need your performance.

It does not need your perfect words. It is already there, in the silence you are trying so hard to maintain.

You can stop holding your breath. The mask was never the price of admission.

Tonight, you are allowed to be unfinished.