The Embrace Before The Apology

The water is still warm on your skin, but the words you practiced have turned to stone in your throat. You rehearsed a perfect confession in the safety of the steam, arranging every syllable until it sounded like grace.

But now, in the presence of another soul, your mouth seals shut. The silence feels like a betrayal.

It feels like proof that you are a fraud. In this darkest hour, where the shadows stretch longest and the heart condemns itself most loudly, hear this: the light does not require your eloquence.

It never asked for a speech. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

The boy had prepared a statement, a careful list of failures and requests. But the father ran.

He reached him before the first word could be spoken. The embrace came before the apology.

The kiss silenced the rehearsed lines. You are choking on the fear that you must be articulate to be loved.

But the light is not waiting for your performance. It is already running toward you.

It knows the words you cannot say. It heard them in the shower.

It hears the silence now. And it loves you in both.