You Are Held When Silence Falls

The cursor blinks in the silence, a tiny pulse in a room that feels too large for just you. You want to send the message.

Not because it is wise, not because it will help, but because the silence has convinced you that you have ceased to exist. You think if you can make their phone light up, you will prove you are still here.

But you are not invisible just because they are asleep. You are not gone just because the line is quiet.

The light that lives inside you does not depend on a reply to keep burning. It was there before you typed the first word, and it will be there when you close the screen.

Put the phone down. The darkness is deep, but you are held by something that never sleeps.