The Light Runs Before You Speak

The morning light is harsh on the performance. You sit there, smiling, nodding, playing the part of the one who is okay, while their hand rests on yours with a trust you feel you do not deserve.

You are waiting for the moment their eyes clear and they realize the mistake they made by staying. You are certain that if they really saw the mess inside you, they would pull away.

But the light does not operate on your timeline of exposure. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the apology. He ran.

Before the speech, before the confession, before the shame could even form a sentence — he ran. That hand on yours is not a trap waiting to spring.

It is the light running toward you while you are still a long way off. They are not staying because they are blind to your flaws.

They are staying because the light in them recognizes the light in you, even when you are hiding it behind a mask. The fear says: wait until they find out.

The truth says: they already know, and they are still here. You are not fooling the light.

You are just exhausting yourself trying to hide from the one who chose to sit at this table with you. The hand remains.

Not because you are perfect. Because you are loved.