The Light Runs Toward The Tremor

The room is loud, but you are sitting in a silence so heavy it feels like glass against your skin. You are terrified that if you open your mouth, your voice will crack and reveal the fracture underneath the performance.

You smile because you think the light requires you to be whole before it will stay. But there was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of the pig pen, and he ran.

Before the apology, before the speech, before the cleaning up — he ran. The light does not wait for your mask to fall; it runs toward the tremor in your voice.

You think your confession would repel them, but the truth is the only thing that can actually reach them. The crack is not where you lose the light — it is where the light gets out.