You Are the Silence After the Drafts

The cursor blinks beside words you typed at 3am, heavy with a truth you can no longer carry. To delete them feels like erasing a piece of your own history, as if admitting you were wrong means the person who wrote them never existed.

But the light does not need your performance of certainty to see you. It sees the trembling hand hovering over the backspace key.

It knows that the version of you from last night was real, and the version of you this morning is also real. The light is not threatened by your changing mind.

It waits behind the mask of okayness you wear for the world, ready to hold both the mistake and the correction. You are not your drafts.

You are the silence that remains after you let them go.