The Light Runs Before You Speak

The house is so quiet right now that the silence feels like an accusation. You are terrified that if you finally stop moving, the noise you make to keep people close will cease, and they will see the empty room inside you and walk away.

But listen — in this deepest hour, the light does not ask you to perform. It does not need your activity to stay.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for a speech or a promise to work harder.

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

The light is not afraid of your stillness. It is not scared of the empty places you try to hide.

It sees the exhaustion and it calls you daughter. It calls you son.

You do not have to fill the room to be loved. You only have to be there.