The Light Runs Toward Your Tremor

The sun is up, and the question comes as it always does: 'How are you?' You hear your own voice say 'fine' before your mind has even caught up with the lie. It slides out so smoothly, so practiced, that for a second you almost believe it yourself.

But the light rising outside your window does not need your performance. It sees the gap between the mask you wear and the tremor underneath.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech—he ran. The light runs toward you too, not toward the version of you that has it all together, but toward the one who is tired of pretending.

You do not have to keep the mask on for the dawn. The day begins not because you are strong, but because the light is.