The Light Waits in the Blank Screen

The cursor blinks, a small pulse in the gathering dark. You type the words that ache to be said, the explanation that might finally make them understand.

Then you stop. You press backspace.

One word vanishes, then another, until the screen is blank again, mirroring the silence in the room. It feels like cowardice to leave the message unsent.

But the light does not demand your performance. It is already present in the quiet space between your fingers and the glass.

You do not need to prove your worth with perfect words before you are allowed to rest. The darkness is not a verdict on your inability to speak; it is simply the cover under which the light waits for you to stop trying so hard.

You are known even when the screen is empty.