He Ran Before You Spoke

The sun is up, but you are still staring at the screen in the dark. Your thumb hovers over their name, paralyzed by the terror that one more text will finally prove you are the reason they left.

You wear the mask of okayness so well that even you almost believe it, but behind the smile, you are holding your breath. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech, before any proof of worthiness — he ran.

The light does not wait for you to be perfect before it meets you. It meets you in the mess.

You are not the reason they left. You are the reason the light is still searching.

The door is not locked from the inside.