The Light Waits in Unsent Words

The cursor blinks, a steady pulse against the white silence of a screen that asks a question you cannot answer. You type the truth, then delete it, then type a lie that feels safer, and delete that too, until your thumb hovers over the send button with a weight that belongs to something much heavier than a phone.

In this long middle of the day, where everyone else seems to be moving forward while you are stuck in the draft folder, the light does not demand a perfect report. It waits in the unsent words.

It waits in the three attempts you threw away because they were too honest. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even the parts you are trying to hide behind a polite 'I'm fine.' You do not have to send the message to be held.

The truth you are afraid to type is already known, and it is already loved.