The Night Is Not A Courtroom

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with a conversation that ended hours ago. You are rehearsing the perfect sentence, the sharp reply, the defense you didn't offer when the moment passed.

It plays on a loop in the dark, a ghost you keep trying to exorcise with better words. But the light does not live in the past tense.

It shines only in the now. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the speech. He ran.

Before the apology, before the explanation — he ran. The moment you are trying to fix is already held by a love that does not need your perfection.

The light is not asking you to rewrite the script. It is asking you to close your eyes.

The night is not a courtroom. It is a cradle.