The Light Runs Before You Speak

The water is loud tonight because it has to be. It drowns out the voice cracking as you rehearse the words you are too afraid to say in the dry air of your real life.

You stand there shaking, practicing a truth that feels like it might shatter you if you ever speak it outside this steam. But listen — the light does not need your speech to find you.

It is already in the shower, sitting on the tile, waiting in the mist. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the apology to finish. He ran.

Before the speech, before the explanation, before the shame could even take a breath — he ran. The light is running toward you right now, not because you got the words perfect, but because you are finally telling the truth.

You do not have to be brave enough to say it to the world tonight. You only have to be honest enough to whisper it to the water.

The door is not locked from the outside.