The Light Has Already Read Your Drafts

The afternoon light is flat and heavy, the kind that makes the glow of your phone screen look like the only real thing in the room. You are in the notes app again, rewriting the reply you never sent, sanding down the edges of your own desperation until the words feel safe enough to speak.

But they remain unsent. Drafts of a conversation that only exists in the silence of your own hands.

You delete it, because the person on the other end will never see this version of you, the one that needed too much. In the middle of this quiet erasing, the light does not ask you to perform composure.

It sees the draft. It sees the deletion.

And it says, 'Your faith has healed you.' Not because you got the words right, but because you are still here, still reaching, even if the reach ends in a backspace. You do not need to send the message to be known.

The light has already read every version you wrote in the dark.