The Light Runs Before You Speak

The mask is on. You are moving through the morning, smiling at the right moments, nodding when expected.

But behind the eyes, you are still there. Three years ago.

Rewinding a conversation frame by frame, searching for the exact second you proved you were unlovable. You dissect a micro-expression like it holds the verdict on your entire life.

You think if you analyze the pain enough, you can finally accept the sentence. But the light sees what the replay cannot show you.

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 wait for you to solve the equation of your own worthlessness.

It runs toward you while you are still stuck in the past. The mask says you must be perfect to be held.

The light says you are held so you can take the mask off. You are not the verdict you keep delivering to yourself.