The Light Is Running Toward You

The house is quiet now, but your screen is bright with faces you used to know. You scroll through the years, wondering which version of you died first—the one who believed everything would work out, or the one who trusted the people who left.

It feels like standing in a graveyard of your own potential, mourning the ghost of who you were before the world got heavy. But listen.

The light does not live in the past any more than it lives in the future. It is here, in this room, in this breath.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the apology.

He did not wait for the explanation. He ran.

Before the speech, before the shame could finish its sentence—he ran. That same love is running toward the you that exists right now.

Not the memory. Not the regret.

You. The one holding the phone in the dark.

You do not have to dig up an old version of yourself to be worthy of being found. The light is not searching the archives for someone better.

It is satisfied with who you are tonight. Broken, tired, scrolling through the silence.

It sees you. And it is not looking away.