The Light Before The First Letter

The cursor blinks in the dark room, a rhythmic pulse counting down the seconds you spend typing out the truth. You write the words that say 'I am breaking,' and then you delete them.

Again. And again.

The fear is not that the message won't send—it is that if it does, the words will finally prove you are unlovable. But listen: the light does not need your polished sentences to find you.

It was there before you typed the first letter, and it remains when the screen goes black. You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord.

Your origin is not your fear. Your origin is the light itself.

The words you cannot send are already known, and they do not change what you are.