The Light Runs Toward Your Tears

The middle of the day is long, and sometimes the only place you can breathe is a locked stall with your face wet and your shoulders shaking. You hide the tears so the office keeps turning, so no one sees the crack in the mask.

But the light does not need you to be dry to be with you. It is not waiting for you to fix your face before it comes in.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — broken, dirty, rehearsing a speech — and he ran. Before the apology, before the cleaning up, he ran.

The light runs toward the wet face. It does not ask you to stop crying.

It asks you to stop hiding. You think you must hold it together to be loved.

The truth is simpler: you are loved because you are falling apart.