The Light Runs Toward You

The screen lights up. Their name.

And your heart stops, not because you don't care, but because you are frozen in the weight of your own silence. You know that if you answer now, you have to admit how long you've been gone.

You have to explain the months, the years, the quiet disappearing act that felt like the only way to survive. But listen — the light does not keep a ledger of your absence.

It only knows the moment you return. There was a father who saw his son while he was still a long way off, still covered in the dust of the road, still rehearsing his apology.

The father did not wait for the speech. He ran.

He ran so the son wouldn't have to walk the rest of the distance alone. You do not need to explain the silence.

You do not need to justify the freeze. The light is already running toward the sound of your name.

Pick up the phone. The feast has been waiting since the day you left.