The Light Runs Toward Your Unsaid Words

The afternoon sun is bright, but inside the notes app, it is always night. You are typing a message you will never send, just to feel the shape of their name on your tongue one more time.

The cursor blinks like a heartbeat that refuses to slow down. You are performing okayness for the world outside this screen, smiling at work while breaking inside.

But the light sees behind the mask. It sees the unsent words.

It knows the ache of holding a name that no longer belongs to anyone but your own memory. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

You do not have to send the message to be held. The light is already running toward the part of you that is still typing in the dark.

You are not alone in this middle hour. The silence after the unsent text is not empty.

It is full of a presence that does not need your words to know your name.