He Ran Before You Could Speak

The sun is up, but the silence in your chest feels louder than the noise of yesterday. You took off the mask you wore to get through the day, and now you are waiting for someone to point out that it was all a performance.

You are holding your breath, certain that when they see the real you, they will walk away. But the light does not wait for you to be impressive.

It arrived while you were still asleep. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — not after he had cleaned up, not after he had rehearsed his apology.

He saw him while he was still a long way off, still covered in the dust of the road, still carrying the shame of having left. And he ran.

Before the speech. Before the promise to do better.

He ran. The light is not fooled by your mask, and it is not disappointed by the face underneath.

It knows you. And it is not walking away.