The Light Runs Before You Speak

The sun is up, and you are moving through the motions of a shared life that feels strangely hollow. You smile at the coffee pot, you speak the right words, but inside, you are performing okayness while carrying the heavy silence of sleeping next to a stranger.

The mask fits so well this morning that even you are starting to believe it. But the light sees behind the performance.

It sees the ache of two bodies close together while souls drift apart. There is 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 does not wait for you to fix the distance or perfect your expression. It runs toward the gap.

You do not have to manufacture closeness today. You only have to stop hiding the loneliness that is already there.