The Silence Where the Running Begins

The performance has ended. The mask is on the table.

And now you wait for the sound of footsteps walking away from the hollow thing they found in you. The silence feels like abandonment.

Like proof that you were only loved for the act. But listen — the light does not walk away from what is real.

It walks toward it. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the speech. He did not inspect the son's hands to see if they were clean.

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

The silence you fear is not the sound of leaving. It is the space where the running begins.

The light is not repelled by your emptiness. It is drawn to it.

You do not have to fill the hollow to be held. You only have to stop pretending it isn't there.

The footsteps you hear tonight are not retreating. They are approaching.