The Light Runs Toward You

The sun is up, and the mask is back on. Your jaw aches from holding it all in yesterday—from clenching just to keep the sobbing from escaping while you nodded and smiled at the people who asked if you were okay.

You carried the weight of a collapsing world behind a face that said 'I'm fine.' But look. The light is returning anyway.

It does not wait for your jaw to unclench. It does not demand that you drop the performance before it dares to shine.

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

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

That is how the morning meets you. Not with a demand to explain the ache, but with a presence that runs toward you while you are still holding it together.

The light is not afraid of your tension. It is already here, warming the part of you that is too tired to pretend.

You made it through the night. That is enough.