Love Returning to Its Source

The afternoon light is flat and heavy, the kind that makes silence feel loud. You type the message out of muscle memory, the words flowing before your mind catches up to the hollow space where their name used to be.

Then you stop. You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over a send button that leads nowhere, realizing the recipient is gone.

In that suspended second, the habit breaks open and the grief rushes in to fill the gap. But listen — the light does not vanish just because the connection was severed.

It was there before the first text, and it remains now, in the unsent draft, in the silence, in the ache of the empty chair. You came from the light, the place where light generates itself, and you return to it even when the phone goes dark.

The love you tried to send did not disappear; it simply has nowhere to go but back into you, waiting to be remembered as your own origin.