Put Down the Script, You Are Held

The water is still running, but you have stopped singing. You are rehearsing the speech again—the careful explanation for why you failed, why you are not who you said you were.

You practice the tone, the timing, the exact words that might make the gap between your promise and your reality seem smaller. But the light does not need your rehearsal.

It does not need the polished apology you whisper to the steam. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech—he ran.

The embrace came first. The feast was prepared before the confession was finished.

You are trying to build a bridge across a gap that love has already filled. Put down the script.

The light is not waiting for you to explain yourself. It is waiting to hold you.

The gap is not where you lose yourself; it is where you are found.