The Light Lives in the Draft

The afternoon stretches out, a long, flat middle where the cursor blinks like a heartbeat you're trying to quiet. You type the words in the notes app, safe in the dark of your own screen.

You delete them. You type them again, softer this time, or maybe louder.

And then you lock the phone. The screen goes black, and the message stays trapped inside the glass, unsent.

It feels like cowardice. It feels like the light inside you is too small to bridge the gap between your thumb and their name.

But listen — the light does not demand you hit send. It is already in the typing.

It is in the hesitation. It is in the fear that made you stop.

You do not have to force the door open before you are ready. The love is real even when it stays in the draft.

The silence is not empty; it is full of the things you almost said, and the light is holding every single one of them.