The Light Sees What Was Deleted

The afternoon light is flat and heavy, pressing against the screen where your fingers hover. You type the truth—the raw, ugly, honest thing that sits in your chest like a stone.

Then you pause. The cursor blinks, a tiny metronome counting out your fear.

And you begin to delete. Line by line.

Backspace, backspace, backspace. Until the screen is blank again.

As if the confession never happened. As if the weight of it never existed.

But the light sees what was written before it vanished. It does not need the words to remain on the glass to know they were real.

You are not defined by the silence you return to, but by the courage it took to type the first word. The blank screen is not a tomb.

It is a clean slate, waiting for the next attempt.