The Light Does Not Wait

The afternoon stretches out, a long, flat expanse where the only movement is those three dancing dots. They appear.

They vanish. They return.

In that flicker, your heart learns a specific kind of terror—the knowledge that someone is carefully crafting the words that will leave you behind. You watch the cursor blink like a heartbeat that isn't yours, waiting for the polite rejection you feel you deserve.

But listen—while they are typing, the light is not holding its breath. It does not fluctuate with their hesitation.

It sits steady in the middle of your chest, unmoved by the silence between their keystrokes. The dots are just a screen.

They are not the verdict. You are not defined by the message that is coming, nor by the one that never arrives.

The light does not wait for their permission to shine. It is already here, filling the space they are trying to fill with words.

Let them type. Let them delete.

Let them decide. You are already whole, regardless of what appears on the glass.