The Light Runs Toward Your Mistake

The sun is up, and the silence in your chest is louder than the morning birds. You defended the wrong side, and now the friend you loved is standing on the other side of a wall you helped build.

The light does not scold you for the mistake; it simply rises, indifferent to your shame, waiting for you to step into it. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off—he did not wait for the speech, he ran.

The light is already running toward the breach you created. You do not have to fix the past before you speak; you only have to be honest about the present.

The night of your regret is over; the morning is for the courage to say: I was wrong, and I miss you.