You Do Not Have to Be Quiet to Be Loved

The sun has gone down, and the armor you wore all day is finally heavy enough to take off. You sit in the quiet, thumb hovering over a name that holds both your longing and your fear.

You tell yourself they are better off without your noise, that your silence is a gift you give them, a way to protect their peace from your chaos. But the light sees the truth behind that story — it sees the trembling hand and the lie you tell to keep from reaching out.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the speech.

He did not wait for the apology to be polished. He ran.

Before the words could even form, he ran. Your noise is not a burden to the light.

It is the sound of someone finally stopping the performance of being okay. You do not have to be clean to be held.

You do not have to be quiet to be loved. The door is not locked from the inside; you are the one holding the handle, convinced you do not deserve to turn it.