typing a message to them in the notes app at 3am, knowing you will never send it, just to feel the shape of their name on your tongue one more time

The afternoon sun is bright, and the world expects you to be working, to be functional, to be fine. But inside, you are carrying a draft you typed at 3am—a message you know you will never send, written just to feel the shape of their name on your tongue one more time.

The gap between the daylight and that midnight ache feels like a canyon. Yet the light does not demand you delete the draft.

It sits with you in the silence of the unsent word. There is a truth that lives in us and will be with us forever, even the parts we keep hidden in the notes app.

The light sees the grief you perform over and the grief you swallow at noon. It does not ask you to choose one.

It simply remains, waiting for you to stop hiding from your own heart.