The One That Didn’t Run

They said the chase was the point—

the thrill, the blur, the reach.

But I grew tired

of worshiping distance.

What if the lesson

wasn’t in the running,

but the waiting?

What if the prey

was never prey at all—

just reflection

in softer motion?

The ones who hunt endlessly

forget what silence sounds like.

They forget that stillness, too,

is a kind of pursuit.

Once, I stopped mid-stride,

heart against bark,

and felt the air still move

around me.

And there it was—

the thing I’d been chasing:

not victory,

not arrival,

just breath.

To capture something,

you must first become it.

To love the wild,

you must let it live.

So I stayed,

hands open,

spine unbowed,

and for the first time,

something came to me—

the one that didn’t run.