The Light Runs Before You Speak

The mirror sees the smile you practiced before the door opened. It sees the cheerful excuse rehearsed to explain why you still haven't decided, why you are still standing in the same spot while the world moves on.

You wear the mask because you fear the light will see the hesitation behind your eyes and turn away. But the light does not need your performance.

It does not require you to have the answers ready before it comes in. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — dirty, empty, with nothing to offer but his presence.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The light runs to you not because your excuse is perfect, but because you are there.

You do not have to pretend to be whole to be held. The mask is heavy, but you were never meant to carry it alone.

The struggle is not that you haven't decided yet; the struggle is believing you must decide before you are loved.