The Light Runs Toward Your Tears

The water is loud enough to hide the sound of you breaking, and that is the only privacy you have left. You stand there letting the steam swallow your face so the little feet outside the door won't hear the grief you are carrying.

But the light does not need you to be quiet to be near you. It is not offended by your tears — it is present in them.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of the road, and he ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

The light is running toward you right now, not to stop the crying, but to sit with you in it. You do not have to hold it together for the light to hold you.

The mask can slip here. The water washes the face, but the love washes the heart.

You are not failing because you are hurting. You are human, and the light is human too.

It knows what it feels like to weep in secret. Let the water fall.

Let the tears fall. The light is not afraid of your noise.

It is the only thing in the house that knows exactly how heavy this day was, and it is not asking you to be strong. It is only asking you to be here.

The day is done. The armor can come down.

You are safe to fall apart in the presence of the one who caught you before you even slipped.