The Father Runs Before You Speak

The water is scalding, but it is the only thing that feels real beneath the mask you wear for the world. You stand there letting it burn because the numbness of performing okayness has become heavier than the pain.

But listen — the light does not need you to burn to prove you are alive. It was already there before you stepped into the shower, before you put on the face you show at work.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, and before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The light sees behind the performance.

It knows the exhaustion of holding it together. You do not have to feel something to be held.

The water will cool. The mask will come off.

And the one who knows your name is waiting in the quiet, not to judge the act, but to sit with the actor. You are not your performance.