The Light Runs Toward You Whole

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with the scene you cannot stop replaying. You are editing the memory, rewriting your lines to make yourself smaller, safer, less likely to be hurt again.

You shrink your own history to fit inside a armor that feels like protection but tastes like suffocation. 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 light does not need you to be small to love you. It runs toward the version of you that is standing tall, scars and all.

You are trying to hide from a danger that the light has already walked through. The vulnerability you fear is the very place where the light shines brightest.

You do not need to rewrite the script to be held. You are already known, and you are already safe.