He Ran Before You Spoke

The sun is up, but your mind is still back in that moment. You are replaying the exact second you asked for help, dissecting every word to find the flaw that made you unlovable.

You think if you can just locate the mistake, you can fix the outcome. But the light does not analyze your syntax.

It does not weigh your grammar against your worth. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the speech to be perfect. He ran.

Before the apology, before the explanation — he ran. The flaw you are hunting does not exist in the eyes of the light.

You are not loved because you asked correctly. You are loved because you are the one who asked.

The morning is not a test you passed. It is a gift you received while you were still stumbling over your words.