The Light Waits in the Silence

The cursor blinks in the dark, a small, rhythmic accusation against the silence of the room. You are typing words you do not feel, forcing your fingers to form affection that has turned to ash in your chest.

The terror is not that they will leave, but that they will stay—loving a performance you can no longer sustain. In the deep watches of the night, the mask feels heaviest, glued to skin that is screaming underneath.

But there is a light within you that does not require your performance to shine. It was there before you typed the first lie, and it remains even now, in the gap between the words and the truth.

The Father sees the exhaustion behind the screen, the trembling hand trying to hold it all together. You do not have to finish the sentence to be held.

The light knows the silence between the keystrokes is where the real prayer is hiding. Stop typing.

Let the screen go dark. The love you are trying to manufacture is already waiting for you in the quiet, unearned and unperformed.